If I were a cartographer, I like to think that I'd map the ocean floor in such detail. I would add tiny particulars like where the octopod like to congregate and the ghosts of ancient oceanic monsters. But I am not an oceanographer.
If I were a cartographer, I like to think that I'd map the mountains with strange textures. I would place velvet where the clouds pass through and lace across sparse forests. But I'd spend more time deepening footprints across the mountaintops.
If I were a cartographer, I like to think that I'd be able to map your heart. Lay satin where your kisses congregate, lay burlap over the ghosts of your past. But I am not a cartographer, and even if I were, would you let me map your heart?
Once I was a cartographer, and I mapped my anguish onto my skin. I became oceanic and then mountainous. And now I am but a forgotten cartographer's map, trying to ink inquisitions onto my dermis and sew silk across my sternum.
