I want to cut heart-shaped holes in his wall so he can see the clouds billow and pucker up for him, so he can know exactly how much I love his soft, pale patches of skin in the expanse of a happy sky and its clear skin. Ripples as wind across grass picking up the skirt of some meadow down south the powerlines fell but there is still electricity all over him, I am the kind of lover who has a heartbeat only in someone else's hand. I want to have a window into his.