Our love was like an autopsy:
you cut open my stiffened chest
and browsed through my anatomy
and found your image in my breast,
and found my dreamings and the rest,
and found the place where we were blessed.
My papery, vulnerable skin
once smouldered under your touch;
I was always one of those open books:
burning too often, and showing too much.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
Our love was like an autopsy:
you cut open my stiffened chest
and browsed through my anatomy
and found your image in my breast,
and found my dreamings and the rest,
and found the place where we were blessed.
My papery, vulnerable skin
once smouldered under your touch;
I was always one of those open books:
burning too often, and showing too much.
