I wrote poetry on your skin.

Tracing every part of your body with a finger
My favorite was writing in french, tragedies,
A silent truth an inevitable one.

One my Father had told me previously on the back of a napkin
But you didn't know about the beauty of the patterns on your shoulders
Or the secrets hidden amidst your chest

Instead you fell silently into a subconscious bliss
Unconcerned about the predictions that covered your sleeping self
They sunk,
Deep,
Into your skin.

And you didn't care.