Eyes: Stars. I can’t help but wish on them, holding my breath, standing on tiptoe, hoping. They promise so much. Arms: Branches and vines. Reaching, wrapping, holding. You break what you let go of; you choke what you keep. Legs: Thunder thighs and tree trunk calves. You frown like it’s a bad thing, but you’re strong; you’re steady, sure, solid. You are a forest and a storm. Laugh: A flash of lightning. An instant of blinding, dazzling music in the midst of my storm. Shoulderblades: Bookshelves. My head is a journal, thoughts spilling over. You are strong enough to bear even the heaviest of my words. Tongue: A forest fire. I still have a second-degree burn from the first time you told me you loved me. Hips: Hills. You are mountains and valleys, and I want to take a walk and get lost in you. Feet: Anchors. They team up with gravity to keep you here. And so you stay. Chest: A strongbox overflowing with treasure. Your heartbeat is the song your whole body sings, kept in time to your pulse, flowing through your veins. Ribs: Boards on a ship. Weatherproof, waterproof. This means my tears (saltwater, too) will not ruin you when they fall onto you. Hands: Morning glories with green-veined leaves. Opening, closing; beautiful every time. Mind: A maze. You’re a puzzle I can’t solve and a line I cannot rhyme. You are never going to make sense, and I love that.