And in the evening.
I wrote poems on his back.
His skin was my journal.
My fingertips were my pen.
And as they dug deep into his skin he became a work of art.
Even more so than he already was.
-n.p
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
And in the evening.
I wrote poems on his back.
His skin was my journal.
My fingertips were my pen.
And as they dug deep into his skin he became a work of art.
Even more so than he already was.
-n.p