All dark long drafting in bed,
I scratch my longing down your shoulder blades—
Your dual-purpose back, a dry erase board,
upraises pink wherever I touch it.
Mark a wild garden. A map you read
each morning in the mirror.
A hidden-in-skin compass: rose lines & needles,
sun marks & riverbeds so you will know my direction
when you return, imprinting my felt, sound-absent
words. But sometimes it’s more.
Circles traced absently, like whirlpools in sand
or veins like so many vortexes,
so much to remember.