Your heart sighs and scintillates like a wind chime,
its melody crawls up my spine, each vertebrae a rung.
Sometimes I imagine that you will give it to me,
ribs pushed back from the sternum like a little gate.
I would make room for it, even if it meant
excising everything else. I would cut little windows into it
so that whenever you felt alone you could look out
and see my own heart blundering next door,
carmine like lipstick pressed against a mirror.
I have eaten the flowers on the kitchen table
each petal pressed against my palate like a secret.
You will never find in another what you could have with me.
I weave your fetish into each aurora. One morning
I will wake up next to you our bodies tangled in ecstasy.
You are too beautiful to be corporeal.
Every time I close my eyes
it is your face I see poised in ether.
In your absence all things are negligent, negligible.
My fingers enter slight as a whisper,
into your interstices, into your myriad shades
rubbing my latent curiosity into a supple hunger.
Each night without premise or pretext
I fold quietly into myself searching for traces
of you within my cyclic bouts of delirium.
Somewhere there is a space large enough for us.