You write me letters with blue ink.
I like to think it captures one kaleidescopic pinprick of your eye.
Though your eyes are green-brown-yellow,
According to the light.

The words I finger fit much better
In my irises than yours.
Across the miles you send me ink in different shapes. I tip
The paper, watch the blue trickle onto my palm,
Hold my breath. Maybe a heart, an ace of spades,
Or some shape that looks different
According to the light.

I imagine I am drunk on ink,
That it makes my eyes bluer,
That my fingers are stained with your sentences.
Perhaps my face will grow lines,
Become as white as letters. And when we meet,
Awkwardly, 
My tongue will be stained (blue
                                           in the
                                      pout lines of 
                                           my lips).

And on the nights when I curl myself into bed,
All salt tears and denial,
My palms will be inked,
Slick,
Soaked with your words.