I dreamt I could slide down the lines of your face. That I could slip into the shallow creases and ride them all the way down, until I drop off your jaw line and land on your belly. Lines like soft grooves in mahogany.
When I think of totem poles I imagine them massive, expansive, a continent of their own. The smooth wood surface of their carved faces stretch to the horizon, and the valleys of their laugh lines are deep, like v-shaped graves. The sides are worn with wind and rain, and when I lie in them they rise up like walls around me, so all I can see is the sky.
When I think of knowing you, I think of you sleeping, of you dreaming: a landscape unto yourself. Because I wouldn’t have myself fall for you I think of falling into you; I want to lie in the lines of your face, in the faint rows by the corner of your eyes, warm with laughter, like the sun baked sides of my totem pole tomb. But since I cannot, I claw at the valley of your spine when you are above me; because I wouldn’t have myself lie in the curve of your heart I lie in the crook of your arms, and cling to your body to keep from falling further.