My skin was a blank page
No words, no markings. Not even a watercolor.
You took your quill pen,
And ran it over my ribcage.
You took your fountain pen fingers
To a fresh role of parchment
And trailed them over miles
Of unclaimed roads.
Along the way, we put up
Highway signs and road markers
You staked your flag in the earthy, unclaimed dirt
You carved a wooden face
Our initials whittled in the bark of a sycamore
You wove a story in my skin cells
I was the parchment
You were the ink pen
Now, how is that fair?
The parchment’s mark on the ink pen,
Is invisible to the blind
I wrote an invisible message
In visible ink