The Quill You Clutch

Nerves already bobbing in the wake
of so many phantom hands
reaching from so many tollbooths.
I yearn for back roads, known by heart.
These snaking interstates through
interchangeable states -
states of being, states of mind.
Today, I'm feeling Nebraska,
and tomorrow, perhaps I will feel
the frothy, laughing bubbles of a fountain
caressing my travel-weary skin.
Your caress, your fingers like silk,
your tongue like sandpaper, fine-grained.
You are the cartographer, my body the map.
You bring together the warring nations.
You navigate uncharted territory
with the dexterity of a Medieval calligrapher.
Truth is the paper, passion the binding,
and with the unstoppable passage of time
I'm finding the quill you clutch is love.
I balance like a porcupine
solid in my precariousness,
teetering on the verge
of plunging in to the murky dangers of love
or choosing to remain safe,
high above the warmth of hearts entwined.