The Ink


By Rebecca Lee

I opened a book and its words flew out amid a cold and windy gust. I caught the surprise on my face in a storefront reflection. Inky fine print flew from the page. Jumbled. Tossed. Mixed like salad.

I tried to gather them up fast. But their shapes, their letters, their voices proved too slippery. Rubbery ink wet the streets with sayings; sentences bounced against pedestrian ears.

“Love I’m sorry lost stopwatch.”

I followed a stray sentence down the block, but the words were tangled: Their letters loose, their punctuation damned. I squinted, but their meaning was lost.


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