From the lover, keeper, hoarder of pencils, I seek your skin.
Parchment upon which I may leave my mark.
In the hours and days, sunrises and sunsets, full moons and crescents,
this is really all I have by way of skin.
But soon I will make my impression upon you.
Not with lead nor ink,
but with the colours that stain your body from my mouth,
from my hands, from my heart.