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One of my greatest (unspoken) desires is to have a lover write on my body.

The curve of an ‘s’, the delicate arch of an ‘n’, the spiraling twist of an ‘e’… the written word a sensual torrent of shape, a searing promise of sound. Hidden within the loop of an ‘o’ or the sharp angle of a ‘v’ are deep moans and humming vibrations- the written word is a Pandora’s box of auditory delight.

And I want the sinuous forms, the searing potential, inscribed on my body. I want to see the ink blossom across my skin, feel the words seep into my pores.

I want.

I want him to trace the greatest lines, the most powerful words, onto my flesh.

I want him to write his history, and mine, and ours, down the lines of my thighs. Swirls of poetry around my nipples. Quotations along my collarbones. Theories on the soles of my feet. Song lyrics on my back. Equations spiraling around my belly button. Dreams scratched in striations on my arms. ‘I love you’ in a hundred languages, scattered like constellations.

I will be a tapestry, a kinetic love letter, the truth of romance found in his words and mine and those of others. I will be the sum total of what matters and what doesn’t, what came before and what will be.

An oracle.

A history.

And maybe it is too much to want. To crave. To desire.

And maybe I will have to settle for tattoos of a few chosen words, an echo of what could have been.

And maybe I will always be that tabula rasa. That white blank page. That empty canvas.

But I will always want.

And that is the truth.

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