My Type

My ideal

is covered in angles

bones that stretch out

   and force the flesh to hide them.

 My love

  a few scars

   especially on the myocardium.

At night

I can hear her breathe

                                                                                                                                

I can feel her warmth

I can taste the significance of all she is on my tongue.

Her personality

The complexity of a forgotten forest at the end of someone’s unfinished novel

Still stuck in the teeth of a typewriter

Stored in a dead relative's basement.

Her wit like Englishmen in a pub

Her sex like sailors ashore after lost for decades sending S-O-S, S-O-S, hoping that the sea would take them, and carry their voices home.

Her beauty like a painting you missed the first time at the museum

  It stops you on the way out

    As you fumble with your ticket stub and keys

      And finally see the work hanging on the wall

        Ready to explode off the canvas

          Ready to take you

            Ready to make paint chips of your being

              Ready to weave you into the very thing you desire.