say maybe i could
draw swirly patterns over
your hand and
you could write poetry
on mine.
my words inflict on me
a kind of awareness that grows
with time, almost like a dam
waiting to burst and
when it does, i could
come up with beautiful poetry
but in the meanwhile, under the
night sky with the world under our
feet and the smiles pasted on our faces,
you write poetry on my skin
so i'll know what good poetry
feels like.