I turned that pile of rock
volcanic, keeping warm
waiting thousands of years
to be discovered again.
To have coarser hands
than yours flit across my skin
and hope it glows, as it did
under your cloud cover.
The bug bites and broken bones
mean little so long as my mind
remains pristine. Routinely reconstructing
the whispers in your war-tent,
shells beneath boundless sea
all under your sway – yet you swore
every atom belonged to me.
When we dance there, I have arms again.
They see fragments of a caved-in face
but conscience,
love,
is all that lives when you are dead.