Your white shirt billows like a cloud

as I tear it from your taut shoulders–

your body a map,

black-grey lines coursing over its surface,

script in foreign tongues,

crashing waves on a restless sea,

a traveler on a tiny vessel–

and you, dark marauder,

kohl-lined eyes flashing in the candlelight,

searching for something lost–

solitary scrivener,

the chronicle of your passage

stored in your physique–

I run my fingertips over

the words of your book,

my only desire

to be writ large upon the remembrance of your flesh–

I ready your quill,

the ink flows.


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