Inkwell
A fly actually landed on the wall
during Styrofoam-strained conversation.
I twirled a scalding coffee cup through my damp palms
and waited.
Wondering if, when, why
he would explain
anything.
He stared past me with
inkwell eyes
I wanted to dip in them with
feather pen,
write out confessions hid behind lashes,
batting away my stare.
Instead,
we stood up
small talk exhausted.
The fly flew off,
toting yesterday’s rationale.