Work Text:
My penmanship with this particular medium was atrocious at first. Diligent practise at this art has made me a secret master of scribing my love poetry.
I am not a man of poesy, as my beloved Boswell has truthfully revealed; I am a man of facts. The sure and certain fact is that I love whom I love. It is that which is my sole love poem to him: I love you, I love you. I love you.
I convert this one factual statement into poesy by scribing it in every language I can find – and the more elaborate, the better.
Arabic is perfect for this - أحبك. – the curl and sweep as I draw one corner of the warmed block along the vellum for this work, right to left. He likes the Arabic; he makes approving noises deep in his throat much like a cat’s purr.
Cyrillic (Я тебя люблю) is more angular, more like the English I never use to write this phrase. He chuckles at that one.
French – so short, that Je t’aime – but in long elegant loops
So I write this poetry my love never sees, but feels in every nerve twice over.
Because I write it in softened bitter-dark chocolate on his bare back, and erase my work by recreating the calligraphy with my tongue.
Theo Broma.