I Made Your Body Poetry

his torso was a piece of marble,
carved with a patient hand. there were flaws-
but they were the artistic kind,
the ones that forced the observer to search even harder-
like how his chest folded slightly in below his sternum,
drawing his shoulders inward,
as if the sculptor intended for him to be perpetually submissive.
his muscles were outlined, distinguished,
but the chisel did not etch them deep enough to leave excessive definition.

he was like a sapling in his litheness,
the way his limbs still fell to his side in familiar mockery of the gangly newborn trees.
he towered above me; even though i was forced to tilt my chin upwards to converse,
he spoke as if i weren’t beneath him.

i followed his lips,
and envied the words that were privileged enough to cross them.
for a moment i blinked, and imagined
i was those fortunate syllables that he tasted on his tongue before ushering them to life in the air before me-
those flavored letters that encased my thoughts with the idea of him.
they were not voluptuous lips, that seduced even the blind with their subtle movements; instead,
they were thinner, forcing you to watch and listen for what he next would say.

his mouth would close and curl if he grew unsure,
instinctively relinquishing his control of the situation, chin dipped down
to prove there was no pride in his actions.
when the passive smile suddenly engaged, and he actively enjoyed a thought i had spoken,
with his captivating graphite lips turning upwards,
i truly thought i might melt into the soil at his feet.

his every action was tentative, from his quick and quiet words,
to the ease with which he smiled. no single action defined him;
everything occurred in such rapid succession that the fluidity of his nervous habits
could be mistaken for confidence.

but i read in his eyes hesitation.

i saw reflected in those ocher pools the nervous excitement i felt boiling in my own gut.
whether the enthusiasm brimming from beyond the cage of dark eyelashes was due to a new encounter,
or because he noticed me in as much detail as i noticed him,
i couldn’t tell.
i was too lost in the idea of forgetting myself in his eyes,
of tasting the words in his mouth, of wrapping myself in his arms,
and leaving an imprint of me in the imperfect mold of his chest.