Each time I write about you
Some of the words eat paper.
Climbing out of nests
With the mad rush of instinct,
ink revelling in the flow
of mispelt shapes
and curled up commas.
I am caught up in a tangle
of tiny black lines
On the bent corners of this post-it note.
My pen is like an exposed nerve
or an extra finger,
Its end a pinpoint peek
into the lifecycle of each letter.
Each sentence like marching termite
trailing across paperplains.
Like a colony of black dots
Or a mutiny of feeling.