I keep a map of you
on the inside of my skin.
Here,
the curve of my neck
where your mouth first landed
and I understood
what hunger meant.
Here,
my wrist
where your thumb pressed
counting my pulse
like you were memorising
the rhythm of me.
Here,
my hip
where your fingers dug in
when you lost yourself
inside me
and I felt
the exact moment
you became mine.
I didn't know
a body could remember
the way mine remembers yours.
Weeks later
I still feel you
in the bend of my knees
the arch of my back
the places you touched
that no one else
ever thought to find.
You discovered me
the way explorers
discover new worlds,
with wonder
with claiming
with the certainty
that nothing would ever
be the same.
And nothing is.
Nothing will be.
I walk through my days
haunted by your hands.
I close my eyes
and see your face
in that moment
when you looked at me
and I knew
I knew
I was home.
You asked me once
if I ever think about
the first time.
Always.
Every day.
Every time I touch myself
and pretend it's you.
The first time
you undressed me
with your eyes
before your hands
ever moved.
The first time
your mouth found mine
and I forgot
how to breathe
how to think
how to be anyone
except yours.
The first time
you were inside me
and I understood
finally
what all the poems
were about.
I used to think
love was a feeling.
Something that happened
to you
like weather.
Now I know
it's a place.
A country
you build together
brick by brick
touch by touch
night by night.
And I live there now.
In the country of you.
In the climate of your skin.
In the geography of your wanting.
I have surrendered
my passport.
I have burned
my maps.
I have no interest
in ever leaving.
Touch me again.
Remind me
where I belong.
Touch me again.
I want to feel
the map redrawn.
Touch me again.
I want to spend forever
in the places you've touched.
