Compass

I am a cartographer.

My fingers trace the hills and valleys that make up your skin,

Making maps I commit to memory. 

If I ever lost my sight, 

My hands could still sketch the curve of your jaw,

The shape of your ears, 

Even the way your eyes crinkle when you smile at me. 

I am an expert in making maps of you,

My brain a reference book full of all your states and territories, 

Your history laid bare, 

Written on your skin. 

I am a traveler.

Though I've journeyed through other strange continents, 

Traveled distances far and wide, 

Yours is my favorite country I've traveled.

Having adjusted to your climate,

No stranger to the weather there. 

I could spend days

Finding new paths to walk, new areas not yet explored 

Spending hours 

Tracing the lines of those long, long bones

Beneath your skin. 

I am a bit of a ghoul, 

I wonder

If I could lay out all of your bones, end to end, 

How many miles would they cover?

(I asked you this once, and you smiled, and told me it'd be more like feet, not miles.)

This a conversation, late, late at night, 

When tired from all my travels, curled up in bed...

I know

No matter how far you roam from me

My handprints from all my travels go with you

On your adventures 

You will always be my true North

Don't forget your compass.