It itched. It wanted to know which of the rectangular boxed letters made up your name. //caption// Black Ink Doodles -Sanjana Kumar If we are to be patterns in black ink, trapped in a panopticon, of sorts, and are never able to search for light in each other's eyes or even, fade away as the page holding us up begins to get crinkly, I am sure we will pave a way through the swirls and back into it, all the while wondering how people pronounce "we" and let go of the "I". It was December, last year. I found your apartment but I didn't know your name.
