If I am to die with ink on my hands,
Please leave it be.
Do not wash even the smallest scrawled reminder,
For it is part of me.
Leave it to remind me that even in death,
There are things to do.
Leave open faced palms,
If they confess my love for you.
Know of the unexpected,
And if you see your name,
Remember why it is written.
You are not to blame.
Let my skin keep its faces
For when my own is no longer revealing,
How will you know what I thought,
How would you know what I was feeling?