A papercut on my left.
I turned a page of
Bradbury
too quickly
and he bit me.
Slow down,
he muttered,
Savor it.
You're young enough to have time,
old enough for a little patience.
On my right,
ink stains the inner part that
cuddles against my index finger.
My pink skin is calloused there from
hours, days, months
of writing,
a pen cradled in that very spot.
Ink lingers there like
nowhere else.
I suppose it's a little bit of home.
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