I wish I took a cartography class
so I could have mapped out the coastlines and valleys
that make up your body.
tracing your fingers on butcher paper
marking your smile with an obnoxious star
you are obvious and true
like a compass rose.
distressed scrolls blotched with raven dark lines and shapes
speak fables of your forest eyes,
true green misted in sea foam gems
dug up from deep in your
cream colored sand skin.
malleable, and soft.
the only difference between fables and fairy tales
is that fables have morals.
I set sail on your placid sea with an oar
and a flare-gun.
contemplating, in deep cerulean.
how to reverse continental drift.
it would be much easier to chart 2 continents