She asked me to write poetry on her skin
It was right after I’d kissed her waist
Telling her how her skin reminded me of smooth velvet paint
Of blue seas, white snow, yellow sunflowers and red wine
Every shade that made her a beauty to behold
She smiled because she knew the artist in me was talking
She took a pen and wryly gave it to me
Asking me to colour her with shades of poetry
I would’ve used kisses and finger trails instead of words for this poem
But when I looked at her, the brown in her eyes became my ink
And words knocked the doors on my fingertips
“Dandelions, protecting two infinity stones,” I wrote for her eyes
For her lips, “my glass of wine, oh my days, full forever”
On her shoulders, I wrote about my first time on a beach
The golden sandpaper and spilled ink bottle
I filled every inch of her skin, with words I’d picked on my way
Her spine read stories of our very first kiss
Rushed but real, like having Pizza when you’re hungry
Right below the spine were boulders of clouds
Her calves had flashbacks to the time we sent postcards to our hearts
Mountains and lost nomads echoed stories on her full chest
And the word ‘home’ on her wild raging heart
I wrote poetry on her sculpted body for hours
Until she became my poem inside and out
Then we made blissful love, literally and metaphorically