a real love poem to my body

Early morning
when the room still hangs blue
or midnights in winter
when cold cities glow orange,
my body smiles back up at me.
Ink settles in my skin a little deeper
and breath is indistinguishable
from shivers.
I kiss my skinned knee with careful fingertips
and bless myself for being so clumsy.
One hand massages the other,
{guitar strings}
and I wrestle with the need to expand.
To be more of myself,
to take up the whole bed and
lie awake every minute. {use up more time and space}
So I never miss a sunset, midnight, or sunrise.
I cannot be victim to myself. I cannot witness myself.
Because I live in the most beautiful
subjective
inbetween
body
and I will not part with it before it asks.

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