the wrinkles on your forehead

the short hairs that make storms on your legs

a tongue that escapes like a murderer

creases of hands caressed by cut nails

a scab that you turn into a mountain

the mole that’s a hill

red traces of jewellery on wrists and neck

toes that curl just to feel

breasts that look like swollen eyes

and yours divert from mine

it is the pain that endures