I turned the pages of your skin and read the stories you told,
kept pace with the way you twisted and turned
under my eager hands, prying eyes,
spread your wings open until I could see your waiting spine.

I pressed the sharpness of your corners against the
softness of my chest and breathed in the smell of you,
like a memory I’d kill to touch just one more time,
something so almost-real, I could taste it.

I felt your weight in my hands,
read your over-simplified summary as though it could ever
contain the vastness of you and the secrets
you might tell if I opened you up and opened myself up
and tried to feel it.