I wonder if my lover truly knows me.
I wonder if he knows that I'm made of sand,
and will slip through his fingers
if he lifts me too high.
                                    I wonder if he knows
that my caverns
contain oceans
that get every sailor drunk
each time they kiss my shores.
                                                      Does he know that I'm made of sugar?
That I'll crumble under the slightest touch,
but that he shouldn't be afraid
to stick his tongue out,
and taste me?
                        Does he understand
an entire field of dandelions
exists in my head,
and scatters my thoughts
every time he exhales?
                                        Can he see that I collected my eyelashes
from fallen pine needles
because I thought it would make me
beautiful?
                   Does he get that I'm not beautiful?
Nor that I'm not magnificent,
or something to be desired?
                                                Because while he's made of marble,
I'm made from sandstone,
and sandstone gets her marks,
from whichever way the wind blows
that afternoon.