My fingertips want your cheekbones
and the curve
on the outline
of your lips.
Eyes to close over your voice,
ears that hover on the cusp of your stories.
real or false,
how they leap and tumble
weaving themselves into the fabric of a
dangling in weeping willows.
Palms stumbling for the peaks and valleys
of your chest,
the sand dunes walling your ribs
riding the rise and fall of your winds
following footprints that lead to your gate.
I am not late.
Every fiber of you is a tale I memorize
like a young girl who hasn't learned to read words.
She goes to sleep with their memory,
playing make believe during the day.
Building palaces of stories woven together
imagining how she will live in them