I have noticed
each day
the ink splatters
staining my fingers.

They leave marks
in such a way
that kiss the paper
and probe the heart.

A stain whose blue
creates a deeper shade
for words to hide
a silent voice.

I long for my ink
to begin to stain yours.

You see the dots
and think of me.
You wash yet they stay
so you think of me.

The stains of my pen
have left you blue.
So you think of me,
and I'll think of you.