Spend some time idealising people,
place them on pedestals,
then slowly start to wonder
if there is someone
somewhere out there,
in this too-big world doing the same for you-
draping poetry over your shoulders,
and crowning you with prose.
Is it so wrong to want to be
immortalised in ink?
To have your delicate laugh and husky voice
penned on paper for years to come?
She wants someone, someday
to meet her and think
she is worthy of such immortality;
the salty caramel of her skin,
the dull brown sparkle of her eyes,
the dusty pink of her lips,
the slight curve of her hips,
the moles scattered across her back like stars,
the roadmaps sketched across her
like contour lines on this map of flesh,
the arch of her ballet bent feet,
even her crooked teeth…
in this linguistic sarcophagus.