Marked

The hands that travel down my skin,

Graced by your fingertips,

This feels like a sublime sin,

To be touched on the lips,

Your passion that stays close,

Our bodies together,

Forming a rose,

Or an intricate feather,

Each of our beings,

Interuptted by a short parting,

Is nothing to fear is what I believe I'm seeing,

Always to have these temporary markings.