You are a blind man’s poem.

I read your body in Braille,
the rhyming lines of your brow
swept down
toward the soft turn of your cheek
and your lips’ closed couplet.

I trace your back like a riverbed,
the pebbles of your spine
washed smooth
by the soft waves that rush
through the valley of your shoulders.

I walk my fingertips across chill-bumps,
the lyrics of sighs on your chest,
kept silent
with the rhythm of breaths
held back against beating hearts.

I sweep my lips over planes,
the landscape of your limbs,
laid bare
beneath this blind man’s gaze
and found no less beautiful by cecity.