–An older piece that has gone through a new revision.

my intimate architect

you began the scaffold on me
and took notes in the margins of my naked side.
throughout, you were as elegant as a bookshelf,
illustrating for me a designed lust where words
lost their meaning until they lay side by side,
etched in mahogany bliss. you ruled me,
compassing past my straightest edges,
gathering drops of blood from papercuts
on nicked fingerpads.
the blueprint you drew was the easy part
but then the time came
for the foundation to be laid.
you insisted on doing it yourself and i
questioned whether architects built their own designs.
you laughed and asked when i
had ever advocated for private contractors.
so you built it all to scale,
saying that we would always be able
to afford innocence.
you pulled me to you in the framework
before the walls went up
and asked me if i could taste how sawdust
mingled with sweat.
you asked me if i liked the almost finished
product
and i said that did.
but i told you to keep the walls out and
let the air outside filter through the dust
and make its own shapes in a natural way.
so we stayed that way,
complete,
waiting,
until we could taste the stars inside the ceiling.