Pen hovers above paper
Breathless with anticipation
Eying the surface
The smooth, sleek lines
Longing to trace delicate patterns
Eager to leave its mark
To become immortal
Upon the flesh beneath its gaze
And yet it trembles with trepidation
What if the strokes fail to please
Felt too hard
Too gentle
Or too deep!
Overwrought, it lacks the requisite finesse
To achieve the warmth of blood bubble
Under the skin or on the finger tips
As it lowers itself cautiously
For the merging and sculpting
And gifts its ink.