I aim to remove your nerves,
to slide them out from a small incision in your solar plexus,
like a fishing net from a lake made of thin pudding.
I’ll clear out the furniture and spread your nerves
across the green shag carpet. It’s like making the bed.
The colors will be so sharp,
we’ll have to squint as our eyeballs pulse.
You’ll hesitantly see, for the first time,
what nerves really look like, on their own,
without all that flesh oppressing them.
I like to think of myself as a nerve cartologist.
I’ve learned your territory through years of careful study,
I’ve drawn the map with my fingers on fire.
I’ve been through your hills and valleys so many times
that I would consider myself the foremost expert of you.
I’ve charted every last trail of nerve you have,
restricted only by your flesh and by your will.
You’ve let me explore your wet California
on a humid and foggy Humboldt morning,
until I came from Florida with stunning violence,
the wetlands overflowing with geyser activity.
We locked Michigans and fell asleep.
Now, you’ll see in front of you,
what truly makes you feel, fear, and lust.
I want to kneel down on this kelp-toned carpet
and gently run my hands over your sheet of nerves,
not actually touching,
just finding my way across the land,
your sighs and quickened breath all around me
as I look for your center,
the place where all the love emanates from,
the place sometimes coated in dread,
and I want to pull the pain away from you forever,
then wrap myself in your energy,
to live, at last, in a place completely filled with love.