I've read the faded books from their dusted shelves,

I know what's promised in old romances:

the same as today, though in other words—

no one has to ask anymore to know that.

That's how lovers spoke in those gray days, without

words, only showing each other their scars and marks,

or, just demonstrating what was meant through

what could be felt, what the gut says.

A heart tattoo. A thousand dots of black.

Ink, all periods, the ends of sentences,

all unspoken until someone, undressed,

black night falling onto white skin,

meets another heart, also beating,

as it does, without sound.