Pages

I let you write
      on my front page.
    I am ready
           to be stained,
        ink on your lips
     to cover my scars.

I will forget them.
Some I already have,
since you wandered
into my life -

all freckles and voice and navy eyes

- and drenched me
    with the July sun.
I long to be written on,
                 sonnets on my
             ribs, driven
          by my iambic
       heart.

You wrote the blush
     on my cheeks,
              my front page,
I wish you'd
fill every page
                     with words
                     of your voice
                     and your hands.