twohundrednineteen.

I want to be the one to write poetry upon your skin. The one to take pens, markers, razors, and blades, carving my words into you, all while leaving typos with my intellectual. I want to be the one to sink my teeth into the ridge of your luscious cranium, until I leave behind a five seven five pattern. I want to claw my sonnets on your back, filled with fourteen lines of fingernail marks alongside the perfect iambic pentameter. Leave behind those fingerprint bruise couplets upon your forearms accompanied by pink half moons of villanelle in your deepest, inner thoughts. Simpler terms, I want to etch my love into you and your mind before you forget.

I love you.