Once you were an atlas
that my hands ached to trace.
Miles spread before me,
a planet in concentrate.

To roll like a child
down the valleys of your ribs,
to race the sunset
across the horizon of your throat.

To swim for hours
in the halcyon of your eyes,
to lie amongst the flowers
in the crook of your elbow.

Of all the lands
I have travelled in my time,
I can say in truth,
you are my favourite.

And when I die,
tell them to bury me here,
my epitaph written
in the freckles on your wrist.