We love, but do not love the flesh beneath,
our lover's skin – the subtle flow of veins
the net of nerves through which our love takes pains
should we require it. We may love their teeth
but not the pulp or gums; the blue-green eye
but not its socket. They are all too real -
it is a half-measure of love we feel-
Touches the fingers' tips and does not pry
into the quick. I know a girl whose skin
is lace and tatter. Her unbeating heart
is on display, and naked. Torn apart
her ribs its broken cage. Her brain within
her shattered skull is blue-green with decay.
Perhaps I'll give her my own heart today.