To my reader.

I would have him be beautiful. Green eyes, piercing through

paper and pigment, running through words and sentences.

He looks upon wooden planes, seeking for the one.

Running his fingers through anthologies of paperbacks and

hardcovers.

His eyes stopped wandering through the shelf,

his mind: wanderlust. He is lost in a world, engrossed in a

treasure rich with images of cracking skies filled with pouring stars.

Then it stopped.

He looked up. He wonders.

This stream of consonants and syllables is not for my fathoming, he thought.

He came over to me.

He picked me up, his baby greens running me over; slowly, sharply.

Comely.

Those fingers

upon my inked spine. I take pleasure, gloriously.

Dearest you, come and wander through the dotted I’s and crossed T’s. Surf through

the periods and exclamation points within my leaves.

I dare you to saunter along the pictorials scratched within my

flesh, with no looking back. Prepare to be enthralled.

Hey stranger, read me.