Four Seasons Growing Inside Me

Deep

She could hold oceans

in between her collarbones,

and I've memorised the concerto

her lungs play in the form of heavy breaths.

I want to write poems about her

so that she forgets to measure her waist every morning,

and reads them instead;

so that maybe, next time she

slides her fingers over her ribs

she will read the beautiful notes that echo

in my head every time she exhales,

instead of a number on a scale.

You are so much more than this disorder, dear.