And I'll just
Trace your bright scars with my tongue
And with my teeth spell out
On your collarbone where it's almost unseen
At the smooth joining of muscle,
That I love you
In spite of/Because of the fact that you're the
Antithesis of innocent and
Legally dead in someone's mind.
And those fingers that braid me bits of string
Are also used to
Spin about me words that end up
Stretching everything to the point that I'm a
Piano tuned too tight
Ready to fly completely apart if
The wrong finger
(That being anybody else's)
Hits the wrong note
(That being anything less than your lips)
At the wrong time.
And when I can erase a state line or two on some map
I'll tell you everything, all of this,
In the language of my hands.