He dips his tongue in henna,

whispers poetry all over her skin.

 

Patterns of his prose

spread like intricate lace:

In the soft hollow of her neck,

the forgiving valley of her bent elbow

the delicate skin,

more receptive than the finest paper,

in the back of her knee

 

He writes volumes,

stealing letters from unknown alphabets

when he runs out of words.

 

Copyright 2017