I wish you’d kiss me.
Like last winter.
Our arms.
Like suspension cables.
Our veins.
Like crawling ivy.
Our hands.
Like knotted twine.

You are an unrelenting hurricane,
vaporizing everything in your path.
You are as fluent and necessary as water,
and as viscous as honey at room temperature,
always taking the path of most resistance.
But once you are warm you flow as freely as the sea,
and just as violent too.
And that is why you require a broadened cliff
for your unbridled waves to beat against,
a sturdy bomb shelter for your B-52 flybys;
an eye at the center of your storm,
perfectly peaceful and okay with all that you are.
Because you are the current within veins,
sending action potentials down axons and dendrites,
flooding presynaptic terminals with pieces of yourself.
And you will be someone else’s,
because you deserve all of this and more,
and these are all the things
I could never be for you.

These words are for your lips
because I know how much you hate them.
I will use my own to lay these letters on them,
and I promise I will be as soft as the words
you spoke to me before the sun woke up.
I will sink my teeth into every crack and gaping crater,
and I will fill them with everything I have left.
My fingers will trace each newly opened scar,
and I will mend each one with suture made from steel.
And as you slowly chip away, I will
keep all of your pieces together,
because you do not need to be whole to be complete.
You do not need to be whole to be complete.