My Beloved Air:

Lovely,
delicate,
fingertips
saturated with ink.
It seeps from your lips
from your pores,
painting stories
on your paper thin skin.
Such beautiful ideas in your head but,
you hold your words
in the hands of a child;
benevolent, yet careless.
Remember that
a strangers heart
is their book, not yours.
Ink stains rarely
wash out.