The ridges in my fingerprints
Are soaking wet with
A secret inspiration.
And when they ask
What coats my fingertips
To write these hinted poems
Shall I say that they've been
Dipped into ink or honey?
Shall I tell them that it's
Saccharine that's running
Through the quill of my mental pen
To soak sole lovers skin with words?
Or should I keep it between you and I?
The truth of the matter, that is, the reason for which I write?