I stuck my hand out,

and it came back triumphant;

I wrote down

all the places you're

ticklish

and covered them

with my shirt-sleeve.

If I'd had a flag,

I'd have planted it

between your

shoulder blades,

the only person to touch you

in any

non-assuming

way, the first who came

and saw

and conquered

that stark and untamed

territory.

Your dark circles tell stories,

like the rings of trees,

of late nights and

bad ideas and awake-dreams,

so preoccupied with death but

never

able

to rest

in peace.