Poetry

I want to write poetry on your skin.
I want to sink my teeth into the ridge of your hip
until there's a five-seven-five pattern there.
I want to take pens and markers and razor blades
and carve an epic into you,
laving typos with my tongue.
I want to claw sonnets on your back,
fourteen lines of fingernail marks
in perfect iambic pentameter.
I want fingerprint-bruise-couplets
on your forearms
and red-half-moons of villanelle on your inner thighs.
I want you stretched out and
tied to the bedposts like new paper,
clean and begging
for me to cover you with my words.
I want to etch my love into you
before you forget.