There is a picture of you, waiting in my body

I need a surface to carve my desire

I’ll smudge longing, the oil pastel detritus that lodges beneath my fingernails—

And now my hands are stained

Now they are the surface—

More appealing. Better texture. 

Brighter blues than the outlines of my wrist vein, begging to be seen for no apparent reason,

Redder than the anxiety scratches, the raised skin I forgot to lotion. 

There is a picture of you,

Waiting in my body. 

And I’m painting into the maw of love, overarching, backspinning, neck cracking, spine like trees in God-gusting winds.