Spoonful of Ink

By Maddie Clarkewright

I looked down across the table
and you were holding a pen,
drawing a small black cross on your knuckle.
I looked up at your face and you were a new statue
silent and still, paint and glaze
still looking down, supernaturally focused.
I become a new kind of stupid when I try to think of a good way to describe your eyes and just how dark they are.
Like ink, or the night sky,
or charcoal pencil,
the lowest black key on a piano.
When the rest of you is glowing like you’re about to dissolve into the sunlight,
Your eyes are steady and unyielding and so metaphysically dark.
Your hair is just like how it’s described in every overly dramatic romance novel.
A cascade of waves down your back,
Ripples of shining locks falling loosely around your body.
But it’s just so dark.
like charcoal and ink and the very center of the universe,
all mixed together with a soup spoon
or a ladle.
I’ve never been much of a believer, but I imagine if you placed your foot onto water,
you could step on it
and maybe begin to walk
And having looked into your eyes a few times,
I’m sure that you could still the storm with a moment’s glance.

Maddie Clarkewright is 16 years old, lives in Amherst, and is a junior at ARHS. She loves Woven Word because it gives every writer the freedom and inspiration to try new things and explore their creativity.