Heart
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Anatomy
🕑 Added 2020-02-23 20:42:35 +0000 UTCShe spreads her hand across my collar bones, thumb pressing against one side, pinky touching the other. She fawns over how little my clavicle is, how she can hold the whole thing in one hand. She kisses my wet lips, tells me I’m pretty, I melt for her.
When she holds me sometimes she lazily runs her finger tips along each one of my vertebrae from the base of my skull to my tailbone, tracing each one. She feels out the little muscles around my spine, sometimes names them out loud. She loves my anatomy.
I know that feeling. I want to write poems about her hazy green eyes and her perfect teeth. I want to worship her stomach, give thanks to her tongue and make sacrifices to her hands. I want to categorize her freckles, take photographs of her eyebrows, map out all of her ink. I love every inch of her.
Sometimes, when she’s overtired she’ll fall asleep on her stomach, face smashed into the sheets like a tired kitten or a baby. It makes me want to sing her lullabies and kiss the backs of her ears. That’s love. Making monuments of trivial things. This reckless adoration of the little pieces that make her whole.
