He holds out his wrist to me
and hands me the deep sea blue Sharpie--
not a scissor.
I place my fingers on his palm--
gentle--
and I grasp the Sharpie in my right hand--
not a blade.
He is patient, and allows me to inscribe "love"
on the inside of his wrist--
not a red line.
For on days like these, we'd rather be imprinted with ink
rather than scars.
and hands me the deep sea blue Sharpie--
not a scissor.
I place my fingers on his palm--
gentle--
and I grasp the Sharpie in my right hand--
not a blade.
He is patient, and allows me to inscribe "love"
on the inside of his wrist--
not a red line.
For on days like these, we'd rather be imprinted with ink
rather than scars.
Shadowpomgurl
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