Tonight I spread the wrinkle-crinkle paper of you flat upon my desk.
Smoothed your edges and creases until you sighed.
And with a pen of whittled beech I wrote your story new.
Because, of course,
you're mine.
I claimed you in a kiss beside a turtle pond.
A boy lost in a store after years of plotted wanderings.
But I'm a landscape without a map;
I'm a map without a key;
I am the key.
Yet, you're still in my lock.
And what I claim I keep.
What I want I have.
So bring your worries and promises, raise your wrinkles and creases while I laugh.
I would have used my tongue.
It was you who whittled the beech.
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