Looking further into dusk
as the soft light fades;
looking backwards into time.

Oil lamp and india ink
an unmarked page waiting;
waiting for you to inscribe
marks of your being.

I want you to spill
words all over me;
let the ink get into
my blood.

My body is the paper
meant for your pen,
your heart beating out
the rhythm of brush strokes.

Strip off your care-worn mantle
and bleed your sadness into
the arms of a welcoming page.