You Are The Poem
Your skin is cursive; it flows under my fingers like ink from a pen, connecting letters into words
Your lips are punctuations; pressed together they are dots at the edge of my thoughts and parting they exclaim loudly with laughter
Your hands are verse; intricate and long, the knuckles interlock and follow one to other, reaching out for me across the bed
You are the poem; written in skin, printed in flesh, spoken by the world
You inhabit my ears and my eyes and my head and my heart.