When he comes home,
I open up his jacket, so I can crawl inside.
I'd do this to his chest, if I could,
leech the warmth from a heart that beats
the morse code letters that spell my name.

They say it's symptomatic, this being cold,
but we all have worlds inside of us,
and mine are icy rocks rotating
a distant and indifferent sun,
the theory upon which my body is based.

Astronomy over chemistry,
no matter what the pills swear they'll do.

Then biology, finally,
as every thrust pulls me farther
back into my own flesh.

02/07/2007

Posted on 02/08/2007
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