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Description

We would do things
no one’s ever written of,
but instead of writing it on paper
I would write it on your skin.

Words would be our bodies
tumbling through the sheets,
our taste buds filled with sounds
of slowly sliding twirls.

Nouns would press on you
with penetrating thrusts,
while verbs would curve
and twist your spine.

And how we’d love
the gravelled commas on our path –
a mouthful said,
yet so much more to give.

Then we’d feel the end come near
and wait the ink-splash in that final dot;
the dodgy semicolon saving drift,
giving ebb and flow to coming lines of print.

Our words - they’d intertwine
and dash through notes,
leaving only shredded shapes behind.

(typos, spellchecks lying in our wake)

A chaos of quotation marks
holding us in ululating streams
and giving hope to brand new

paragraphs
of daring curves
and streaming lines,
and stains of ink
on borders of the bookmarked page;

and storms of
frantic punctuations,
shuddered tugs,
and currents
of concluding words.

And then
at last
two silent exclamation marks
of stuttered trembling peaks

Followed by
three dots in line
as all
the words
are lost…