When I write I love you,
I want to set it down with a pen.
My fingers search keys, tap signals of admiration.
But ink flows and penetrates deeper.
I want to mark it in stone,
carve it into the bark of a fallen tree.
I’ll wear it, instead,
etched on the insides of my eyes.
When my lids slip shut at a blink, or asleep,
those words flare up and remind me.
Like ink, they’ll seep into
the layers of my skin, my flesh,
find their way to my heart