And I will make a book of you.
Grind your bones into red paste.
Your soul will come out your nose
and I will capture it between covers.
Every time you touched me will be
recorded so that when I lift the book
into my hands I can feel almond
breezes and remember your smile.
The dust jacket will be wrapped
with your hair. Your weight the pages.
I will press you into my work,
the one place you refused to go,
afraid of the shadows in the corners,
behind the curtains. This book will
make you real to me in a way your words
never could. It will reach me where
your love could not. And late at night
when other lovers are entwined, I will
pull this slim volume from the shelf
and caress the downy jacket like a lover’s
soft thigh. Only then shall I open you
as I never could in life, and read from
the secrets of your heart’s dark continent.

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