The Ink That Bled

The ink that bled that day was thrice inflamed,
Once, when it left the cradle of its pen
And ran to form the letters now unclaimed,
Twice, as a heart grew close to bursting when
The thirst for contact scarcely could control
A potent perspiration that arose
In gasps as each drop dribbles in its role
To run and ruin feelings felt by those
Who never would reach to reciprocate --
And Thrice, as Fate spun slowly on her wheel
With nothing left to say she made them wait
'Til someone taught the both the ways to feel.
She held an emptiness, an empty stare:
A letter never written, never there.

Topic: Trying To Talk To a New Person
Date: August 25