I’ve heard it said that
you spend your whole life rewriting
the first poem you ever loved.
For me, I write the first
boy I ever loved,
over and over again onto myself;
on my heart, on my bones,
carved into my ribcage
and etched into my flesh.
When I die my body will be
the sky—words like stars
spilled out across me and in me;
I will have upon me an entire universe,
writing and rewriting
how it feels to be loved and in love.
When I die I will see that
there are no words that can describe it,
except a whole sky of them,
holding hands like constellations
across my stomach and my thighs.
I’ve heard it said that
if you stare at the stars long enough,
they’ll make you blind.