Quinlan

I want to write poetry on your skin. I want to sink my teeth into the ridge of your hip until there's a five-seven-five pattern there. I want to take pens and markers and razor blades and carve an epic into you, laving typos with my tongue. I want to claw sonnets on your back, fourteen lines of fingernail marks in perfect iambic pentameter. I want fingerprint-bruise-couplets on your forearms and red-half-moons of villanelle on your inner thighs. I want you stretched out and tied to the bedposts like new paper, clean and begging for me to cover you with my words. I want to etch my love into you before you forget.