I settled for tea, as coffee was unavailable,

and spoke to the dust in the air over a cigarette.

“A clemontine smell, the sting of citrus, is just as  potent as ink.

When its shell is penetrated; when our eyes sting

and our mouth waters with anticipation; when we

crave to see the colour of its flesh and to taste what its life has produced;

we have stained our atmosphere with its glamour.

Be it movie titles or fridge-born self-confidence

you see the ink;

be it novels, poems, paintings or Kraft Dinner cooking directions,

you see the ink;

be it t-shirt tags, laundry detergent, or remote controls,

you see the ink;

we see the ink, because the ink is like a clemontine,

the ink is like fruit

There’s only one layer to cut through;

one layer to sever violently until you can paint the prettiest things.

We cut through the silence, the haven’t-said-anything

and then say something, and the world is born

in a billion colours,

in a billion ways,

peaceful, warring, equal, or burning.

Like the flesh of a clemontine, the ink can rot.”

Just like that, my coffee and my cigar died.

c.2012 Josh Garrett