When I called the visual appeal of your body topography, you laughed. You misunderstood.
The sharp angles, the planes, the curves and the hollows of your body, of your skin stretched thin over bone, these are what I find beautiful. This is the topography of you, the places I want to map with my lips and teeth. The familiar places, my home within a home, my love.
Your body is geometry, trigonometry, mathematics you hate almost as much as the way I can trace your every rib and vertebrae. Perspective translates your flaws into aesthetic beauty, but your perspective is your own and you will never see what I do. I will love you enough for the both of us, darling, love your flaws more than your perfection just to give you what you deserve.

I want to guide my fingertips down your backbone, using vertebrae like stepping-stones across my river of dreams into a beautiful reality of you and me.

I want to do laps in your smile and blow my speakers out to the sound of your laughter.

I want to find every ticklish spot on your body, map them out, and mark every treasure with a kiss.

I want to hold your hand, like we handcuffed ourselves together and then swallowed the keys to each other’s hearts.

I want to take a spray can full of emotion and graffiti a wall, of a police station, during the middle of the day, as if opening up isn’t dangerous enough…

I want to show you that I’m dangerous enough, that my heart could jump the Grand Canyon for you, with no helmet or elbow pads, because every scar is a story and stories are my business.

I want to shake the hand of the artist who controls your paintbrush eyelashes creating beautiful works of art every time you blink.

I want to **** the nicotine from your black and gold lips until I become your new addiction.

I want to become one of your bad habits, like procrastinating to get out of bed with me.

I want to replace your morning coffee and your hot showers. I’ll be the first thing to warm you in the morning and the last thing to hold you at night.

My arms will be like scarves laced with melatonin wrapped gently around your head as you drift away to the sound of the broken rainstorm locked inside my chest…

I want to show you what is inside my chest.

I want to show you my best, but I’m nervous my smile won’t be enough because I haven’t been flossing with my cerebral cortex and I’m afraid I won’t think before I speak.

So I’ve been biting my tongue until ever word that eventually crawls its way out of my mouth stains my shirt crimson.

These walls I’ve built are a prison and I’m growing tired of the view. I’ve been digging escape routes to landmines that blast me back to square one. So take a diamond wrecking-ball and crash into me like a kamikaze under cupid’s orders.

I need you to make the first move because I can’t open my mouth to say “hello” when I’m busy gnawing at the bear traps around my ankles.

But I swear when my legs are free I’ll drive to you like a car fast as death because I’m running from a daisy that I couldn’t pluck and trying my best not to end up like Gatsby.

And although I still have a bee hive full of romantic ideas of recreating the past resting on my shoulders, I want you to be the smoke that kills the buzzing.

I don’t have to be your everything; I just want to be your something.

And I wish I could be like Houdini so I could escape this straight jacket sewn from the fabric of time dyed blue by every ex of mine.

And when I take a punch of courage to the stomach, I hope I walk away with a smile instead of in an early grave.