Maps

Photo by Ré Harris

You hesitate,
hands to yourself,
quiet.
Someone said your question was wrong.
That wasn’t me
measuring cool
like whiskey.

Lean close,
I’ll kiss you back.

Or ask me,

choosing I heard you words,
if you’re afraid.
Say my name,
the one I told you a hundred ways,
hinted by word,
body spoken,
mouth curled around sound.

Do you want a map?
See more of me.
I’ll unfold mine then, smoothing creases,
possible routes becoming sharp
as clear morning sky.
Follow whichever beckons,
though better to make your own.

What they meant, I think,
when measurers tied your hands.

Lean close.

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