- Ink on the Thigh
Your fingertips trace lines I can feel,
even before they touch,
a language of whispers,
dark as the quiet hours
between night and first light.
Each stroke is deliberate,
a map of longing
that I follow
without question.
When your hand reaches
the place where breath breaks,
I am already unfolded,
the ink of you
staining me
in ways the world will never see.











As the fat lady sings, the ink is an opera of one person’s aria.
Your metaphor settles gently. I appreciate the way you framed it. 😉
this is breathtaking Sue ❤️
Thank you, truly. I’m glad the piece breathed for you. 🙂