Ankles.

In love there are no real subtleties,
only brash and jagged movements.

For one could say,
“In the morning dew, bluebells glistened with broken stars,”
or
“Beneath your eyes, a softness forms
and yields against my sweet refrains.”

All these damned and cursed poets,
encasing their words with flowers and sentiment.

What simpleness,
what lucidity,
to wrap such words in metaphors.

Yet how she backtracks
when I say directly and intently,
“I love you.
I want to bury myself deep inside you.”

How she recoils in fear.

Looking at her ankles
under nighttime covers,
I spotted a valley of creases.

I imagine all life forms
coexisting harmoniously
between skin and bone.

The surface of her body
relies on the aching movement
of parasitical seasons.

These beasts cling tightly
to the steadying beat of her pulse,
sounding out across the universe,
telling the world
that she was to be the Sun.

A river flows
between talus bone
and knuckles of the flat spade root of her feet.
Each step creates electric current.

Ebbing and flowing water
divides arid body parts
that remain forever untouched.

Barren from soft kisses,
or void of love,
dry skin peels
and deserts weary travellers
who sought refuge
from a harsh reality.

These tiny feet
do not know what they carry.

They simply do not know.