Spin softly.
Touch pebbles like your
finger will sink by mere impact.
Melt right here, in this place.
Not there, inside the heart
full of porcelain turtle doves
and twigs. But here, in my hands,
where a map of surrender is
eating itself.

As fast as fire
burns animal skin, as fast as
phantom secrets slither through
crowded teeth, I will answer the door.
And you will appear. Though dripping wet.
Though missing parts.
Though fallow heart.
Mine, then ours.