that is what the buttons
on your flannel are.
everything else is honey
comb through my skin,
lava moving through muscles
you've had 200 years in this
wreckage and you still won't
say a word. then suddenly
i have to talk over you, suddenly
you can't fit your emotions into
your sentences so they start
creeping into mine. when i
kissed your scars, i meant to tell
you that i understand, that they
mirror mine, that you should take
pride in every curve you have
survived. you will not give yourself
that credit, perhaps that's why
you taste incredible.