Ink / Goodnight. Sunset drips its golden ink on random spots of the 6 oclock sky My mascara runs. My face runs. The paint and the water mix and suddenly I'm someone else again. My hand shakes. It dots the paper with accidental pools of black. Writing with real ink, for the first time as a child, is something I remember. almost. A drop of my face lands on the letter, half written, mixing the word "weary" with a warm peach watercolor, letting the ink in the r and the y run and bleed. I smile, with the portion of my mouth i have left. I leave it like that. I leave the pen uncapped, Letting the ink go dry, Letting my face melt into the champagne carpet, Letting all of my worries, my expressions (when the emotions are available), my eyebrows and my nose and all the issues I had in my head with the shape of my mouth, Melt. Blot. Bleed.