My attention runs deep
As though I’m asleep, –
I pull myself a sheet and scribble atop her skin
Until it bleeds and turns to pink;
My willing scar is hers to keep.
She can tell if I’m being cheap
Or if I’m being real,
That’s her one true skill,
She’s fond of the after-chill that
Courses through her lines at will.
It’s potent to be a latent that matures to speak;
I drag her to the beginning of my line,
Until she grounds her ears
And listens to my spiel through the running liquid of my bic, –
She signals with a weep,
And that’s when I’ve dotted the Is and crossed the Ts.
A fair-lady indeed that understands my thoughts to nil,
Until I’m dry and void and my peace is a fill.