Peel back my skin as if I were a slippery grape, and behold the woven muscle underneath. They say God’s loom made us all, but I rather fancy it was the birds. We are all naked without our skin, and there is no need to feel shame about exposed bones and lack of hair because we can all be imperfect together.
Sew buttons to my hands so they make a louder noise when I clap, and give me the sensation of heat so that I can tell when you are next to me. You are fire, loud as first snow fall. I will offer you my heart on a platter of palm leaves, and you may pick at it as you wish.
I have faith that you will become the first flower to bloom on Mars; the cacti in the barren desert will be jealous that they didn’t think of it first. But we care not for those who can’t cry. Look at the moon blush orange with the indecency of men touching nature’s fruit with their bare, honest hands!
As a disclaimer, I feel obligated to mention that the earth is too big for me to love, and the ocean is too wide for me to drink, and I spend too much time waiting for your messages to ever go to sleep, you know. One night, I dyed my hair instead of calling you, and when it turned out green as limes, I decided I’d rather be a worm than a tree, and I chopped it all off – down to the very roots – using my craft scissors.
I write nowadays.
Sometimes, I pick flowers, too, but I can’t imagine who has time to tend to the garden unless I am the one who does it in her sleep.
Let’s ride a bicycle together until we get to the ends of the earth, and we can both jump, but I won’t hold your hands unless you ask first. You are my dream, and I can imagine the latitude of every freckle on your face, the ghosts in the shadow of your dimple, and your eyes of fools gold and gray – gray as the nails of a hoary clam shell.
I ask you, my friends, who needs ashtrays if you don’t smoke? The answer is that they come in handy when you’ve had a bad day and need to throw something – no guarantees on what’ll happen to your wall.
And let me warn you that I like alliteration, and luck is for losers, but if you taunt me, the luck might turn in the sails of the wind. Do you like soup when it is dripping past your eyes, the tureen loose on your head because the metal contains no elastic for it to conform to the bones of the cavity they say houses your brain?
This pen will bleed if you work it any harder, and who will be able to read your masterpieces if they’re covered in blood? You’ll be in a pickle – which would be uncomfortable because you’d never get it out of your hair.
Here’s a question for the brave among us: you are up to your nostrils in schemes and plans, but are you an alien or are you a robot, and please check here if you’re planning to take over the world. I’ll design your campaign posters, and you’ll kill me first when everything goes wrong, but I don’t mind because I like the scallop shell of your ear far, far, too much than is recommended by my daily caloric intake.
Your only flaw is that you forget apostrophes when you write about possession, so I don’t know if I can share with you the secrets of the sandbox or the cave or even my toy trucks. Maybe if you ask real nice and agree to call me queen, I’ll see what I can do for you.
Sometimes, falling asleep can be worse than staying awake because you forget to remember to miss the shape of his hand.