a love poem, so wut

The architecture of you is perfect.
The peaks of you align - your shoulder and knee,
propped up on the bed
while you confess your love
of Canada's President to me
he has tattoos
and is shirtless
what a babe
he's forty-four

I love the angles of you
your shoulders square burgundy from your pretty little head
as you press ink into yourself
you were once afraid of needles methinks,
and I imagine the lures and tubes they stuck into you
- is it wrong to love you more because of it?

you remind me of myself applying make up:
the tunnel of concentration
that funnels down into your thigh
as you press your mind's eye into it
one inky puncture at a time

I love the bands wrapped around your ankle,
wrist and neck
some stories to match the scars
on your thumb and chest
and how the latter becomes red
in the heat of the shower

the way your fingers curl into your own flesh
and in
to me

the way your eyes wrinkle up when you're happy
you always seem -

and even that one time your eyes were leaking
with the aches of this world
you still were more beautiful
than anything I've ever seen
(of course I loved you more because of it)

I'm so happy sat on your floor
churning out words
for both business and pleasure
they flow in your company

will you let me grasp your skin
will you meander around strange places with me awhile