our/anatomy

This skin, stretched over brittle bones
hides the softest flesh of humankind
and spiderwebs of nerves, and veins aligned,
and the joints in my fingers, church domes.

My nails, funny things, make little crescent moons
in my palm as they embed themselves into this skin,
sipping the blood twisted into a grin.
Little dots of red that gleam in the gloom.

Let me feel your face and the complexities
beneath your skin. Is it like mine?
Let me feel the architecture of your mind.
Your grassy cheeks, your urban jaw of towns and cities.

Cradle my head and feel the tension in my neck-
a rigid tower, stiff and immobile.
Understand my shoulders and the chains they conceal.
Delve deeper, deeper yet.

Explore me beyond just seeing me.
Feel the curvature of my collarbone
and the thread with which it is sewn.
Notice the difference between feel and see.

You should be loving me now.
Love is remembering the bump on my finger
from writing this vapid poetry, these empty words
that mean nothing, for they lack the power of sound.