scribbles on paper,

so I wrote myself on his wall.

My spine is an acronym

of his name.

I placed it in the middle,

then put it in bold,

so he could understand me.

My legs are two haiku lines,

short, momentary pleasure,

revealing myself to him.

My arms are stretched

like two run-on lines.

They only pretend to be

left and right, dreaming

of folding themselves

on his shoulders.

He said poetry is only

scribbles on paper,

so I wrote myself on his wall.