Your fingertips -
                                     as if covered in black ink
                                                                          or mud -
   have left markings on my hips

                     where you pushed your
                                      hands into me,

your lips left love on my skin


and the places you would plunge into me

             and I would dive into you, too

is a place
       that aches as I write this

is a place of forgiveness
                                        of giving

and your fingertips pressed into my
                   skin
                            and weaved through
                                      my hair

my scalp only gave
                                      and we pulled
                            each other and pushed
                             even harder until
I rose to the top -
                  then you.