Write about the lines on my hand, he said.
I smiled back.
I could have written about the sparkle in his eyes
Or the knowledge on his tongue
I could have written how his kiss left my knees weak
I could have written songs
About how his fingers felt
pressed against my thighs
I could have sung melodies
From his soft, careful kisses on my neck
or how the stubble on his cheeks
turned up the heat on my own
I would have written so many things about you.
I would have written on more than just the lines on your fingers
I would have written books about you
But I couldn’t tell you that.