his eyes
were black holes
I was
a scientist
spending
my days
figuring out
what mysteries
lay on
the other side

his body
was was a map
I was
a cartographer
tracing
my fingers
across his skin
I tried
to find
the direction
we should
go

his hands
were novels
I was
a bookworm
reading
between
the lines
willing myself
to remember
each
tantalizing
part

his mind
was a garden
I was
a peaceful visitor
careful
never to intrude
because
picked flowers
are only beautiful
until
they die

my heart
was a thin glass vase
you were
a bull
in a
China shop