There are gargantuan mountains inside your skull,
cascading waterfalls in chaos,
tumultuous oceans of darkest blue,
different corners of rooms,
curtains of a particular shade,
dinner tables,
your favourite cigarettes,
the first touch,
and your mother’s pink and purple hair.
I bathe gratefully
in the sunlight of your eyes,
swimming in your laughter lines.
I trace the waves
of your body,
over the depth and curves of your muscles,
stroking each hair I meet,
curving my palm when I reach
your face.
I long to hold all of you,
all of your depth
and I know you’re not a poet,
but I know you hold little poetic secrets
like cleverly hidden libraries in the back of your teeth
and when you kiss me,
I can taste it all —

for K.W.