S. Cat

I laid in bed making a map out of you.

I traced you olive vein back to your love as you inhaled.

I drew consolations on your moles and took your curves more slowly as to not wreck like I sometimes do.

You laid open like a surgery on our bed, and your vast mind continued to speak, and I got lost inside your vocal chords

that strummed more heavenly than

any musician strummed strings.

And I sometimes think that, at that moment, you could have been an anesthetic

and lulled my mind,

fighting pain the endorphines could not.

I studied the way your skin wrapped around your skeleton as if to hug you more tightly than my own arms could.

From those moments of half-sleep, I could tell when you were dreaming by the way your body shaped itself into a fetal position --

like a flower before it bloomed.

It was hard not to surround you during nightmares

with my body as your armor.

There was absolute allure in all of the beautiful and horrible things your spirit conjured in its sleep,

and I wanted, badly, to see them all,

to unwrap you like a wound that's been covered for so long that you don't know if it's healed or not.

It was intense to believe so much in a person's soul without seeing it,

but her words were my gospel and her breath my hymn.


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