Because the smoothness of your skin
makes my empty hands ache to take your shape

and because the rise and fall of your voice
comes to me on the waves from the farthest shore,
a ringing bell in the mist to warn of wrecker's rocks

and because the fire in your eyes
sinks down to the glow of the hearth and the home
but lies low in the coal, never goes, and waits to ignite
with a spark in the heart to a blaze whose gaze I cannot meet

and because the movement of your limbs
is a melody sung by a nightingale in a wood
in some dark fairy tale, a song I dare not sing
for fear that it will change me into a swan, that the
hunter's arrow will shoot me before my thoughts can fly

and because your heart
is a closed book

I am writing on the spine
an incomplete mythology