I looked to know you,
when we shared the same air, only ours.
Passing warm breath back and forth like secrets.
I see you, beyond and beneath the face I’ve been learning.
I trace your wiring, your make-up, your pieces,
the ones almost forgotten,
like a stack of photographs hidden in an old book.
Your colour, the stitching of your insides,
It’s purple, not quite pink,
because you are flawed, with frayed edges,
So hungry for dilated gazes, and warm skin.
Flawed, and wholesome somehow still,
yellow and gleeful,
but not in my hands.