my ink ran dry
until you poured your own
that bleeds
a soft, sacred scarlet
onto mine,
and now i have
an ink heart
that beats
only for you,
every heartbeat
pumping words
in a rhythm and flow
that's almost
as hypnotizing
as your own,
and i long
to read your words
and have something
soar
within me,
whether it be
a dove that has long since
fluttered
restlessly
in my ribcage,
or a hopeless dream
that sings of romance
in the narrow, melodic streets
of Italy,
and i'd love to
share these wanderlust
fantasies
with you—
maybe in verse
under cherry trees
with our faces painted
a dim, sleepy glow
by this drunken moonlight,
and with our lips
dabbed with the sweet, sticky honey
from the remnants
of the past day's sunshine,
or simply
in old conversation
that holds no metaphors—
only a song
that sings it to you
straight,
with only a few
little detours
to leave the pathways
of my soul
ablaze
as we take a road trip
down each other's minds,
carving hearts
along the way,
so we might visit them
someday
down memory lane
love,
mari