to which he could never respond

why does one call it
falling when it's more like
sinking?
honeysweet
quicksandsleep
deeply
into the marshes of his body.
his body.
his body is but
undiscovered territory...
a lush, savage country
where i seek to
leave my mark
(if only for a moment)
to make it seem conquerable,
mine.
i long to trace the lines
of every peak and valley,
use his sighs as the compass
to guide my step.
i will lose myself in the
jungle of him-
stumbling through
the tireless brush
naked,
speaking in tongues,
like a thick-lipped native
possessed by
primordial gods with
names unprounceable.
i will wait by the
drybed of his collarbone for
the rain to collect,
and i will drink.
i will crawl through the desert of
his belly
to find cool solace
in the cavern of
his navel.
i will track my paces with
a cartographer's detail
in fine ink
to guide the explorers
who will next follow my trail.
for there will be others-
lured to a sailor's death,
dashed against the flat stones
of his shoulders,
his sirensong
a last folly.