Nothing has ever scarred my wrist
but the subterfuge of letters.
Inked phrases, ebony claimed ivory,
small and for-my-eyes-only powerful.
I steal poesy
delicate out of the air,
pulled deftly from fabrics
of lyrical tapestry.
Un-belonged and un-possessed,
owned by none.
Regardless, I imagine they are yours,
kissed gently onto my skin.
Or possibly ravaged, as I am by
I have doubts of overwhelming nature,
I am irrational and fragile
at the mercy of deception.
But of such aforementioned words:
I can, to say the least,
give you that much.