I don’t want to tell you
how to love me.
I only want to breathe softly as you trek across my body
like a nomad wanders the desert
in search of water.
Dip into my dark crevasses
like you have found oasis.
Drink hungrily from me, satisfy your thirst
as though you have been parched for 100 years.
I don’t want you to tell me
how to love you.
I only want to map your body
like a cartographer of ancient times
tracing my fingers along this valley,
that continent, mapping on your skin
this warm sea
that tropical paradise.
I want to draw the lines of the equator on your body
and cross it with my gentle mouth.
I don’t want to light candles
or turn on music.
I only want our soft sighs
to fill the air, our breath a union,
and the gently whirring fan a background
to our travels.
This is just one more way
to worship the Earth.
– Keeley Milne