We never really talk about our bodies
Without eyes, all that’s left are the little of your cheeks
fitting the curve of my hands; my arms,
a hanging pretense of wings; the sole of your foot,
a slope. The heel is a hill turned downward.
The nape of my hips, a waterslide.
Your hands on my pelvis, a firm request to waltz.
There are many ways to encircle me–a hug
or the resolute limbs you rest on the cushion of my thighs;
the first one is Thessaly. The second, Macedonia.
Our fingers clenched together, a valley in our grasp.
the absurdity of an inverted triangle
fleshed out to a question mark.
Every contact is twofold:
the closer you breath on my skin,
the more words become inconsequential.