337b2438039753-57544d8043601
from the More Hugs project (Ken Lo)

I ceased to belong to myself

the moment I met you.

My name sounds too foreign, too alien

yet, say it once — even in a whisper

and I’m home.

(Fun Fact: These ears collect my name from your lips;

it’s in that clear-glass jar

swimming with the sands of time.)

 

My hands are not mine

they are slaves that itch to uncover

those parts you always hide

—tucked at the sleeve and hem

of insecurities that with my touch

break free

like flakes of dead skin

My hands are slaves.

 

My spine is yours to summon

ask for a hug—it concaves

beg for my touch—it convexes

cry like a little child whose balloon slips

from chubby hands

and my spine stands erect

firmly planted so that you can lean

and still weep without falling.

 

My pen’s ink is a devout lover

each stroke it fills,

each space it occupies on the sheet

breathes adjectives,

your quirks, your moods,

collects definitions

just so no doubt could ever cloud

what it is I mean when I write

those three words.

 

 

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