his hand so softly stroking my hair
snaking along my neck
pressing in the valley
‘tween my shoulder blades
down
down
down my spine
circling each vertebra

he carves my curves out from stone
hips and thighs and flesh and bone
his thumb traces the profile
of the ***** of my nose
and the smirk of my lips
trailing down my sternum
the outlines of my ribs
and stomach
all the round and all the sharp

the dimples
the freckles
the scars
all finishing touches
touches
o’er my body of clay
‘cross my skin of paint
covered in his fingerprints
humming as he works

and i take whatever form he asks of me

- p. winter