He wrote words on my skin. Poetic, hopelessly romantic words etched over my arms and legs. Expecting the cruel pinching of the pen I've felt before, I instead felt just the soft tip of a marker. Blue and washable. He leans in for a kiss but just as our lips nearly touch he pauses, awaiting my consent. I silently observe our breaths pushing against each other's, his hand cupping my face ever so softly. I love him but do I know him? Should I open the doors and if I do would I be able to close them? In a movie once, there was a woman who wouldn't kiss her suitors on the lips. For it is far too personal an act to conduct with one you don't love. While others have taken my lips to their's I have an option now. The option scares me. I am far too accustomed to the brutal ink than the soft felt. How do I know that this is right? Do I wish to open these doors and let my walls fall around the frames?
YOU ARE READING
Ink Vs. Felt
PoetryDecisions I was not given before or ones I had forgotten existed are laid out plainly and openly.
