My Best Writing

my best writing doesn't come on paper. it doesn't flow out of the tip of my pencil and roll over the lined canvas of my notebook. it doesn't bleed from my fingertips and weave through the interwebs to settle on the computer screen. my best writing has never been read by anyone else, not even you. my best writing is never even written at all. my biggest words and my beautiful allegories and my blossoming hyperboles come when I least expect. the perfect description of your beauty builds up in my brain when I stare at that freckle on your cheek for those three split seconds we stop kissing long enough to take one deep breath. a metaphor for your pain plays out in my mind as I kiss the scar on your nose that I can only eloquently describe as a "blob" right now. but then it was the shape of a newborn baby, grasping for just the slightest sense of something familiar. the way your voice sounds in the morning and the look you give me when I wrestle you, a look that says you find me frustrating and wonderful all at the same time and you don’t know how, form in the veins and stream out of the pores of my fingers splayed out on your arm and soak into your skin and you don't even know. my best writing isn’t written on paper. it is written under your skin, where only i know where to find it.