Spilling ink onto paper,
fragments of mirth,
shards of anguish,
trapped in rolled-up sleeves.
Turning up my collar,
as blue as these days that slip by,
scattered verses plunge into,
the fathoms of unknown waters.
My ink runs, slips, treading lightly,
penning odes to love on bare skin,
your bare back my canvas,
my fingers tracing, caressing, scribbling,
homages to our laughter, our tears.
lie spent, exhausted,
famished and parched from saying too much,
my fingers tickle your soft skin,
my ink would run dry,
were it not for your gentle touch
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013