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.