I slowly transpose from Flesh and Blood to Page and Pen.
My hands are dog-eared, and lined
From folding them in anxious knots at your side,
As if I could build the courage
To weave them between yours,
If I but practiced the plait enough by myself.
The glue binding my pages
Melts, in the white hot heat of You,
And I tear at the seams,
Spewing volumes of protective fictions,
Awkward silences like semi-colons perforating the plot.
In the cerulean seas
That surge like tsunamis in your eyes,
Ink bleeds from my scroll
In a maelstrom of sonnets and stanzas,
And I am left