Parallel Lines

A kind of red ink fills the lines of my fingertips

As my hand seeps into a foreign flesh surface,

Acting as eyes for these blind and wandering lips.

I envy the wine that you so gently sip.

As you spill yourself out onto the white paper lace,

A kind of red ink fills the lines of your fingertips.

Inside your skin you seem so well equipped,

Just barely covered by your knifelike dress

That's plucking out my eyes for these blind and wandering lips.

The well-guarded hole in my shirt is beginning to rip

And tear open to show such a large lack of grace

As a kind of red ink fills the lines of my fingertips.

I try to hold in my insides, tightening my grip

But without even a word, you clean up the mess,

Opening the eyes for these blind and wandering lips.

And as we enter the night of this full body trip

I yearn for the beautiful change in your face,

As a kind of red ink fills the lines of our fingertips

Acting as eyes for our blind and wandering lips.