if your body were a poem if it were composed in verses

I would stay in the words trapped

around your waist

I would read aloud raising the intonation

arriving at the two altars of sonnet

I would go down whispering pausing

to make me as slow as a point

to continue linking the commas

to the edge of the heart

where rhymes meet depth

where the voice breaks

for the daring vowels

right at the moment where your eyes

they would look at me wanting me to keep spelling

in that stretched, flexible and hot second

where the tingling of syllables

unites them to form another meaning.