My heart is the son of my body and it wants you.
Do you know how much that aches? Like a salt bath
for the blistered. Like a cold that haunts the bone.
It betrays me and I kneel to it; wouldn’t you call that
a kind of theft? A kind of breaking-in? In any unspoken
language, shame is a palindrome that riddles me:
through the holes, a blue moon whistles nearby,
me and all your untouched desires gathering. At night
every bell is your voice ringing my name. I am already
willingly of you, ungainly with consent. May I touch
the clouds of your chest with my fingers? Am I fated
to be the lover who begs?