some men and women
will scale you from 1 to 10
like they have lived within
the outlines and inlines of your body,
like it's your fault the moon has craters
or a crow was born albino
or death is inevitable

but they have only seen
the curves of your waist
when they should have seen
the curves of your cerebrum,
blooming with constellations on every turn;
they have only seen
the bumps of your biceps
but they should have seen
the bumps of your big heart
pumping rivers of stardust on every cycle
because you are not a 1 nor a 5 nor a 10—
you are a hundred

it is not your fault that
you carry cosmos in your veins;
i am proud of you—
it must be difficult to handle
that much beauty and power

and this is why their scales
only last up to 10—
because they can only see
the milky way
when you are
the whole universe

i called your name through
my fingertips
and you answered , you called
back with the blinks of
your seas, the shiver of
your late autumn forests
and i could
taste the fresh breeze in my lungs.

toe to toe and lip to lip  is
the way i've learned your
outlines and your inlines,
your filled in
places and the places
where the ink bleeds through
the paper.

maybe if i painted a seaside,
maybe if i painted a forest
i could smear down the
silhouette of you

In summer nights your words goes wild, slipping in
through the windows so you could sort of smell
how the whole night had turned out

Imagine the look on the face
when they realised what you stole out of them

Stopping it from the step, loosing the language
in the tombs of dead fools
(where else could be home?)
I stick my finger up the hole
spin it around, so that the twist of pleasure falls out
dripps to then become sticks that pokes holes
inlines
As a kid,
I could take them away,   imagining that I
went away
so that we never had to hear that cunning mind again

I will never turn younger,  I’m told.
I’m just wondering what they mean

For what happens when my mind does not absorb the idea
realisation about the casual plan

*it sort of falls apart