Ink Love

Sometimes when I breathe in
I can feel the prose of your tongue
tracing rough rhymes across my neck.
They are classic and warm
and it makes my whole body move
the way words that sound alike
compliment and guide eachother.
There is no symmetry
in the entanglement of our bodies,
but we are poetry in motion.

I can still feel you
when you aren't around, lingering
in all of the right spots,
the same way ideas and phrases
for unwritten pages
float in and out of my mind.

Let me compose you into
something I can grasp --
I want you at my fingertips
like the pen laying ink on this page,
smoothly and easily.

Let me into your skin,
placing punctuation with my teeth
at the sensitive spots
(your left earlobe, the curve
between your neck and shoulder)
where I need to pause and
breathe you in again.

Lay in bed with me
without a complex metaphor.
You are already a better thread count
than my sheets and the cool side
of the pillow.

(My collarbone and inner thighs
are nothing without your hands
touching them, electrifying them.)

Love me in free verse,
forget Shakespeare's iambic pentameter.
We are already more timeless
than one thousand of the
most-lauded love sonnets.