These ugly things rise as barnacle covered rocks at the lowness of tide, swamped in with seaweed and the thickness of breath.
Dark in-namable mire.
It's a jealousy which has no specific name, that rides low in my chest, where the giddiness of love should be kept;
kept up,
Locked tight,
delicately pruned and watched and watered.
It's a two-faced jealousy, echoing the god,
one hand dipped in each sin
never quite becoming synadelphus -
the eight armed monster.
Always lacking one,
missing one,
missing
one

I cut you in the places I would least like to be cut, the ones I think would drive me mad.
I'm checking the thickness of your skin.
It's the thinnest in your eyelids - only half of a millimeter. What you see can hurt you far worse much less what you touch
or can never touch again.

Skin is the largest organ in the human body
and your palms are the thickest of it -
your palms and your soles.

Take my heart in those thick hands
Take my heart in those thick hands and run on those bare feet, down where the barnacles wait patiently for the water to swallow them up again -
Throw it like a flat skipping stone,
high into the air - the steepest arc
you can muster, and when it comes
down it will enter into the sea
With no sound.

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