The Loneliness of Bones

I've been thinking

about the vulnerable parts of us;

the delicate, the hidden, the hollow.  

about these body clothes we wear

the loneliness of bones, and the marrow.  

And to think, something as precious as this:

a collarbone, a femur,  a vertebra

fragile, tensile

is held in place only 

by the skin of us,

by a blue rivulet 

a system of

confluence and delta

light and lifted

it snakes above a

mangrove of tendons and ligaments

pulsing

And yet-

what is it we hold within?

what lives within this spindly birdcage

and quickens

at the sight

  of the man I love? 

my bones long for his company

the graceful curve of his spine

the delicate hollow of his throat

somehow, together 

we are more

 than bones and blood.  

love,  wren

(who makes you feel like more than bones and blood?)