his body

His body 
is nothing but
a bag of flesh and bones 
stitched together 
by skin.

But there is nothing 
more profound.

His hands might 
just be fingers 
attached to palms 
But those fingers 
create words that 
can shake souls 
and change minds. 
And when those palms 
press against mine, 
they send shocks 
of electricity through 
my body.

His lips might 
just be veils of skin 
stretched over teeth. 
But those petals of flesh 
are soft like velvet rain 
and whisper smooth 
stories of the crass beauties 
and righteous wrongs.

The way he moves his limbs 
is like 
the way wind 
moves water. 
When his arms close around me 
and press me to his ribcage 
I can hear 
the soft drumbeat 
that forms 
the rhythm to 
my life.

His hands quiver 
my humanity 
and rupture my body.

His lips impress 
the memories 
of a million lives.

And his chest beats 
the words of 
a thousand love songs.

And the way 
he holds me, 
it’s not like he’s 
holding a bag of bones.

It’s like he’s holding 
the intangible part 
of my person. 
It is spiritual 
and sacrilegious.

His body is the vessel 
for the small imperial 
life that I can no longer  separate myself from. 
It is where the indulgent fiction 
and the ultimate reality 
collide together and 
form the line between 
the sacred 
and 
the profane.

His body is the land 
in which the true world hides. 
And is the place where 
fairy tales come to die.

But still, 
it's just 
bag of bones.