Surgery.

When I look at you, my love,

I see you made up of wool and speed –

Of fast talking and laughter rolling  –

you are a million cups of tea and the taste of it

gone cold, you are a warm place to crawl into.

I don’t see you like you do.

If I was to draw you, I would draw a blur

passing me by.

I would edge it with red crayons,

or gold, or orange,

that tingling heat I feel when you brush past –

our little fields of electricity

crackling against eachother –

that’s how I would draw

the feeling of almost touching.

Don’t ask me to speak of your faults –

I don’t see your broken parts, the things you hate –

that scar on your forehead is a place for kisses

and frowns, and books read before the sun is up.

The puckering flesh on your shoulder is

a night time map  –

I brush my nose against it in the dark –

your scent taking me back to sleep.

Don’t ask me to hate it.

And the tumourous mass that clings and grows,

that you hate to look at, hate me to look at, well,

when I touch it,

when you let me touch it,

when you are asleep and I touch it,

ever so gently,

I can feel your heartbeat.

Impossible to hate something so full of you.

Don’t ask me to do it.

I don’t want them to cut you up.

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One thought on “Surgery.

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