Cartography

I write best when I use a fountain pen
For then I can best map the rivers of blue
(better than black).
The eyebrows of ink arching the i's

Stroking the t's.
As the vein-blue capillaries sink
Beneath the dermis of the page,
So you seep into me.
I am blotted, I am blue.

If I could draw, I'd pen you a map
Ink rivulets would flow to an Indian ocean
The undrawn tides swelling between
Sands of surrendered white,
Cliffs of forbidden green.

There would be on that map
A secret key, unknown to even
The most ardent of cartologists.
This map is our silent treasure
My only declaration.

Using these co-ordinates
You can always find me,
Though sometimes the sea is too hungry
and my pen runs dry.