If my love is tangible,
then it is spread across my body as a map.
Follow the curve of my ear.
This is where false whispers spoken in too many dark corners have punctured holes in my skin,
and I’ve placed trinkets there, roadside memorials,
that I see reflecting in your eyes when you say you love me.

My shoulders are wide.
They support your good intentions,
the things you always meant to say,
the actions that never become reality,
the promises you allude to, hoping
that I’ll come to my own conclusions.
Your hands are large,
but they can’t quite span across me,
and in the end
I know I’ll find the truth to your motives
in the bare spaces between your spread fingers.

How many times have you read me?
Tracing your fingers down the stretch marked
pathways of my breasts, my inner arms, my stomach,
listening as I search for your heart.
You interpret the Braille of my body and tell me what I need to hear
so you can smooth the rough terrain between us
and remain ambiguous a little bit longer.

If you love me, then make me your world.
My body should be your soil,
my heart your force of gravity,
my life your only supply of oxygen.
I was never meant to be a launch site
for your next adventure in life.
If you love me, then transform me into the earth,
and do not drift away.