When I see you I think of sawing through my ribcage,
finding an abstract painting - not a Rothko; maybe a Kline.

I’d pull it out from somewhere between my ribs and hand it to you
and you’d love me -

I don’t believe it but I think it anyways. I think about
stealing a kiss from you, pocketing your wrists, hiding your calves.

About our hands tucked together,
valleys into mountains

and breaking something just so you’ll look at me.
I trace my ribs all day but I can’t find the point

where I became someone who would
trade my veins for a glance, give my fists

just to see what you look like
surprised.