take your fingers and one by one
trail them down my back
so that I can catalogue the feeling later on.
january 6: moving south with a speed of
one vertebrae per half minute;
progress is slow,
final destination is not in sight,
but outlook is still surprisingly hopeful.
you are allowed to map my body
with your mouth so that one day
I can write out the experience.
february 17: found that three teeth marks down my neck
there is a breach in the seemingly solid fortress;
careful, you will find an opening point
of shivers and gasps.
better yet if you can
keep me up so long at night
that there is no time to write these things,
let me instead journal them on my nerve endings.
march 30: my skin is music
that only you have the ears to hear,
and you think it’s a beautiful sound.
but please,
never let this be written:
*april 1: it’s not a joke, you told me.
you have new bodies to find and explore;
I guess I’m the fool here.