A Study in the Quiet Anatomy of Love.

In love, there are no real subtleties,
only brash and jagged movements.

One could say,
“In the morning dew, bluebells glistened with broken stars,”
or,
“Beneath your eyes, a softness forms,
yielding against my sweet refrains.”

All these damned poets,
encasing their words with flowers and sentiment.
What simplicity, such lucidity
to wrap such feelings in metaphors.

Yet she backtracks,
her breath falters,
when I say, directly and intently:
“I love you.
I want to bury myself deep inside you.”
How she recoils in fear.

Under nighttime covers,
I watch her ankles:
a valley of creases,
I imagine all life forms coexisting 
harmoniously between skin and bone.

The surface of her body relies
on the aching movement of parasitical seasons.
These beasties cling tightly
to the steadying beat of her pulse,
sounding out across the universe,
telling the world that she was to be
the Sun.

A river flows
between talus bone and knuckles,
the flat spade root of her feet.
Each step sparks electric currents,
water ebbing and flowing,
dividing arid plains of skin
that remain forever untouched.

Barren from soft kisses, untouched
void of love,
dry skin peels,
deserting weary travelers
who sought refuge from a harsh reality.

These tiny feet
do not know what they carry.

They simply
do not know.