Calligraphy.

It was the night after our graduation.

I finally paid lip service to my youth long infatuation.
Scrawled a late night dictation
of my heart against your ribcage.

Love letters made
With promiscuous ink
on a pale skin page.

A long tale 

though one only ever destined to be 

a short term story;

manuscripts never seem to read the same

come morning.

Come sobriety,

the time that we slip clothes 

back over naked bones

and love letters fade until

they become just another shade of your skin tone.