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.

Love made to look complicated yet simple,
his last breath, one of joy and not sorrow,
his wife, with child, unaware of his demise,
blood leaks from his head, the greatest is behind,
crushed beneath the wheels of his car,
his wife cradles their new born baby boy,
not yet named, his innocent face held close to hers,
she hears the news, her heart implodes,
her insides turn to nothing,
from happiness to horror in a split second,
she gazes at her baby boy with eyes like his fathers,
tears fall down her face, flawlessly white.
she cries out “Matthew, Matthew”
grief stricken, she stands alone.

I stare at the red on the floor
And I realize I love you more than
anything
I'd cover your veins if i could
To stop the metal you poke them
with
I wish I knew what made you hurt
So I could carve pieces of my heart
into little pills
And fill your bottles with them

I am not born as yet,
five minutes before my birth.  
I can still go back
into my unbirth.
Now it’s ten minutes before,  
now, it’s one hour before birth.  
I go back,
I run
into my minus life.

I walk through my unbirth as in a tunnel  
with bizarre perspectives.
Ten years before,
a hundred and fifty years before,
I walk, my steps thump,
a fantastic journey through epochs  
in which there was no me.

How long is my minus life,
nonexistence so much resembles immortality.

Here is Romanticism, where I could have been a spinster,  
Here is the Renaissance, where I would have been
an ugly and unloved wife of an evil husband,
The Middle Ages, where I would have carried water in a tavern.

I walk still further,  
what an echo,  
my steps thump
through my minus life,  
through the reverse of life.  
I reach Adam and Eve,
nothing is seen anymore, it’s dark.
Now my nonexistence dies already
with the trite death of mathematical fiction.
As trite as the death of my existence would have been  
had I been really born.

Distract us
Sidetrack us
Engross us
Refract us
Or offer
A glimpse
Just a slight
Of what's real
While we march
In our sleep,
While we are
Standing still,
We’re still reigning
Still falling
Still fighting
False stalling
And cannot see
The ground with
Our heads in
The clouds with
Our eyes And
Our ears Cotton
Wool-ed From
Our fears A
Divine Inter-
ment our shins
Creak on
Cement and
Our boots
Thump and grind
As we march
On the blind
Silent lips
Bleary eyes
Muffled sounds
Freaky minds

Do not stand at my grave and weep..
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry..
I am not there. I did not die.

They amputated
Your thighs off my hips.
As far as I'm concerned
They are all surgeons.  All of them.

They dismantled us
Each from the other.
As far as I'm concerned
They are all engineers.  All of them.

A pity.  We were such a good
And loving invention.
An aeroplane made from a man and wife.
Wings and everything.
We hovered a little above the earth.

We even flew a little.