More poetry, what a surprise. It seems like that's all I do these days. Like it says, I don't really have a title for this one but I wish that I did. Anyway, here's the poem:
Your voice is a pen scratch,
messy writing scrawled on
crumpled paper,
all rasps and teeth and creaking jaw bones,
choking out inky words
and tender thoughts
like messy poems on late-night
diner napkins.
I'd linger
in your red ink blood for hours,
breathing in your harsh uppercases
and scattered cursive writing
and whispered lowercase letters.
I'd bathe in your freeverse, ever-messy language.
Let my body be your notebook,
make my hands your moleskine journal
grace my parchment paper hair with your
ink-stained fingertips.
Whisper your shaking pen-words into my ears,
let yourself scratch delicate, harsh calligraphy
into my curves.
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