I lost the map to your body long ago;
tonight the stars will be my guide,
my compass to this body once familiar
and numbered among the dearest of lost things.
You are a journey to remembering;
your neck to a moment bent over food,
your hips to motions against the sea,
your hands to early mornings and the scent of tea.
All these hint of you,
to a season of fruit and youthfulness,
when joy was a thing we didn't know we had.
Time is playing tricks;
I once knew your every valley,
your mountains once home to my song,
a place of heat and constant motion.
Why do I expect for time to have stood still for you?
The boundaries of your body have shifted;
there are grooves to a life unknown, well lived,
of sorrows and happiness imprinted on flesh,
of a slowing, a patience harnessed with years.
There is much to discover,
and time cannot be counted upon for much anymore.
But still there is no rush;
I will read between your lines for an answer,
finger them as the lines on a map,
invent a forgotten country and rewrite its history because
I lost the map to your body long ago
and tonight we have only the stars.