ink tickles

Photo by Velroy Fernandes on Pexels.com
i write 
on your page
slightly tickling 
your skin 
with a
white 
f  e  a  t  h  e  r

dipping my finger
into the porcelain
inkwell—
so delicately
moist with 
i n d i g o
i n k

my soft
strokes very
lightly caress 
the most sensitive 
creases
on your 
p  a  g  e
 
i take my 
dripping finger,
full of sensuous thirst,
and autograph 
some verse bites
on your back
c  o  v  e  r

and all night long
i keep writing
free rhymes
until you 
drunkenly 
fall
a  s  l  e  e  p

no need
for more words
as smudged ink
reveals i am about
to lose a bird
of my own
f  e  a  t  h  e   r

so long,
writing lover
of mine—
here is one last
indigo ink
tickle
for your 

g o o d n i g h t
p  o  e  t  i  c
d   r   e   a   m    s

nightsong (published)

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com
i lightly caress
the tip 
of that mike

As if I was 
about to sing
your yet unwritten
silent

s
o
l
o

instrument naked—
my voice 
about to tickle 
Your well-versed skin

and enticingly 
bite on your
unsuspecting 
earlobe

A mascara tear
drops
and blurs
the mirrored image of 

our 

i
m
a
g
i
n
e
d

coexistence

the one that will never
be read aloud—
same as my solo 
will never ever get sung

it was 
your one and only
a capella kiss

yet that night 
you chose
not to 

l
i
s
t
e
n

to my naked
notes
that bleeding

nightsong