you who sit huddled away from me
retreating into a home not home
a warmth not desired by any chamber in your heart and freezing mine you who were born some three hundred days before me yelling with your infant breath the fate of me of you of us you who stare intently passing torrents of electrifying passion through the fluid remains of my soul and
you who possess a playful tenderness an animalistic wildness a maturity not yet attached onto the cold of your skull what is
the shade of your lips and the shape of your teeth and the indentations of your heart?
I long to know the intricacies the curvature of your inch by inch holding up in my two hands as if handling a museum and tell you softly whispering on the lobe of the ear my dreams my hopes my insatiable desire to be yours