egg

The writer in me
wants to scratch
the salmon-colored
lines of a single
wordless poem
into the blank space
between your ribs
and your pale neck
in a blind burst
of dizzy inspiration
too fast for rhymes
or neat stanzas,
broken up instead
into short breaths
and the heat
that curls up your spine
until your face flushes
and you spill inspiration
back onto me,
leaving nothing but
a smear of color
on my trembling
fingers.