Invisible Ink

Human skin is a curious thing.
Soft yet unyielding.
Parchment awaiting ink invisible
that drips from my fingertips and leaves
a barely discernible trail
visible only in the curling of your lip
and the surprised exhalation from your throat.

We kiss.
We kiss and writhe and beg.
Your hand, it wanders up my leg.
You're a wellspring,
a wellspring of invisible ink.

I can't think with your hands on me.
The soft parchment of my skin is
scrawled upon
and I am covered from crown to toe
in messages of direst warning,
direst woe,
but with the brush of your fingertips
you change the words.

It's a curious thing, anyway.