rough

Standard

Tonight, I want to write poetry down your back.
write odes to each divot and crevice- to each vertebrate.
I want to trace your skin with my lips, know
all the secrets that you’ve written with your fingertips.
Your hands- rough between mine-
share a lifetime of sensory images
colors that I cannot process or imagine.
does your skin prickle like mine when you moan?

I’m not a morning person but I
would wake up every day to watch
the sunrise spill across your tiny motions
dust motes gently caressing
the air around your form

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