You taste of rose petals and quiet Sunday mornings.

I can’t help myself as I allow
tiny fingers to dance across your chest
find the hidden secrets along every edge.
So personal, I feel as if I’m intruding:
That you might catch me at any moment.
I think it was that very thought that kept me going.
As I long to touch your every scar,
read and know their story.
You write poetry on your skin—
Watch the ink become soaked through your pores
And etched into your very bones.
I watch you,
                  watching me.
Your tired shoulders shrug; you say,
“Lasts longer than it would on the average sheet of paper.”
This way you wont forget, can’t change a single word.