wrap them in feathers, write them on bones,
feel each word speak into my skin, press
against me like a flower clasped between chapters.
I want to measure the meter of each kiss,
scrawl the transcriptions, calligraphic, on my lungs,
feel them ache against my heartbeat with each breath.
I want to take each sentence of our story, fold it
like steel, hammer it to ribs, hear the hissing
as it plunges through oil, ignites.
I want to light our book on fire, taste
the clean-hot blaze, and swallow it whole.