Inner Process

The bones in my arms are missing you
hollow as they are with brittle
airsacks like a bird's.
These airy bones of mine are craving for
the jellied inner linings of the puzzle of your body.
Each sinew drawn within each muscle,
each fine hair upon your head.
The palms of my hands are missing you,
hunger to cup the points of your elbows
or cover all the creases on your lips.
My fingers miss you too, and most of all
they miss your forehead, its embedded clockwork,
and the careful chaos of the map behind your eyes.