Never touch-starved again, forever a chub-bellied baby sexed big
Skin a heatmapped catalogue of hands still wet still grasping still blood-fat
Behind every steam-slammed door, playplush beds as good as checks
Whole home stitched with only these rooms, only this near-rip big
Kitchen table perfect island for the stranding, meals propped heaven-large
Backyard a honey-dripped grove named Eden, ripe land of no bills
Whatever drops first, spice-adorned, sauce slicked back-to-front
Splayed open slow, tempting a spill, grateful to be devoured like I’ll
Make my giggling groommates, spit-tethered hips churned tender flip
Down smeared-open mouths or whole wedding cakes or any drown we like
Just measure by the fistful how thick this slick can coat a sigh, add ten
And that’d be balm enough to dizzytrip my lonely and her cartwheels
Love Poem -1: Chicago (CST) to Bangalore (GMT +5:30)
Then love was a phone ding’s dopamine thimble
instead of revolution, our green and singing world.
My day your night. Your day
my husking, skin to bark to sap rot.
No pixels, no disembodied voice teched towards me
reassembled you here.
Both feet missing. Inner ears gone.
Top of your head, merely suspect.
Each eye’s prism, flattened.
The geometry of your chest, lost math.
The godweld between us taffied,
split back to word and light.
Its reconfigured data—
your slick hologram—
my dearest friend who refused
to touch me.