In a generation that spells love in emojis,
I wanna know your middle name,
The most embarrassing movie that makes you cry,
Where the first loss you ever grieved left its shadow,
And feel the constellation of freckles on your back.
I want you to know your spine can return from iron to bone,
That I will mend it if it breaks,
Will weld my shattered pieces to yours to realize they were never damaged,
Just anticipating a shape to welcome yours.
I wanna tell you this in writing or verse.
It seems cheap to do it any other way.
I hope you learn that I am no dream girl,
Am not an anatomy of metaphors.
My body narrates in bruises, scars, in its hues and variance.
I am not a fantasy.
I am flesh and feeling
I don’t want to text you this,
Instead implore you to explore my landscape firsthand.
Texting is for the loveless,
Compresses a heart into a screen,
When the cardiovascular system was always designed vast and rhythmic.
Romance via-text lacks all sustenance,
Just enough to remind us that we are affection starved.
This is a feast,
Unmeant to be devoured in apathy.
So, please do not toss me a series of bootleg hieroglyphics.
I am not a translator for loveless leftovers.
It doesn’t have to be every time,
Nor all the time.
If you love me,
In your ripe plum baritone,
Your eyes, my focal point in every crowd,
if you mean it,
tell me you love me.