A curved line with a blue-inked pen
I turn to peek, but "Don't look!" he says
I can feel the scratch of every line
He's drawing an unfamiliar design
The ink is cold on the back of my hand
It starts with one line, ending unplanned
A message thought through carefully
A steady hand used skillfully
The lunchtime crowd unusually loud
But his words are the only important sound
"Almost done," he says with a smile
"Would you hurry up!" I say after awhile
I feel him holding my hand, his warm, mine cold
Every line that he etches is blue, permanent, and bold
He finishes the scrawl with one final line
"Okay, it's done," he finally decides
I look at my hand and there sketched in blue
Are the beautiful words, "I love you"