Literature
scrying in margins
I find you in ink
half spilled
from a bursting pen,
mine;
yours
drawing me in
outline.
The annotation
I didn’t mean to keep;
a name scrying itself,
shaping the text
from the margins.
The line
breaks,
inhales,
smudges
along the seam of a sentence
I wasn’t trying to write,
and the whole page
lilts toward you.
I reach for language—
it opens its hands
and you fall through
the ellipses,
every letter
reshaping itself.