Whisper Poetry Into Her Skin

I traced every verse with my lips, soft as a secret, slow as a promise, pressing sonnets into the curve of her neck where only I could read them. I wrote love letters down her spine, each syllable melting into her warmth, each line sinking deeper until she became the ink, until I became the page. Her breath hitched— a stanza unfinished, a poem caught between longing and surrender, and I knew, right then, that poetry was never meant for paper. It was meant for skin, for the places only we could find, for the language only we could speak when words were too small to hold what we felt. So I whispered poetry into her skin, until she trembled like a verse left in the hands of a poet too in love to let go.