I want to spread open your ribcage
and crack the unnecessary bones
separating me from your heart.

I will search for your beating vessel,
if you allow, with eyes like saucers;
I am but a child again, over-fascinated.

I long to caress the reservoir of your life,
whether it cramps under my fingers
or splatters me with infection.  

I would sample your warm blood,
its tang under the care of my intestines,
but I stitch your ruptured skin instead.

I do not dare to interrupt your body’s habits
any more than I already have;
one glimpse was a bandage to my own.