I had forgotten what familiarity felt like before I came to write you. I wanted [x] from you, where [x] equals all. I rearrange as bird as blue as tissue. And you–you are unvarnished, unbridled, angel still ugly. When you sleep, you are so perfect and strange. I am telling you this because it is something a poet would write about. They would write it just so, just to see the words fall on the outer edge of reason. I spend so much time wishing my writing was different, which is the same as wishing I was different but if I was different, you would be different too and I haven’t yet decided if I’m okay with a time-place where you aren’t exactly as you are now, here (your fury), here (your cheekbone), here (your roots). It scores me with a sadness so soft to write about you so clumsily. If I could, I would write you more than entire. But looking is not equal looking and all I have to offer is dispersed effect. Who was it that told me about contentedness, oh dirty liar. I met you and I knew I would never be content again. This poem is wall-to-wall to give you no room to move, to hold you to it, to press down upon you. The poem is a dimly lit room, the poem is taut sentiment, the poem is holy sacrament. Birdsong cuts through the noise cancellation feature on AirPods, as god intended, but birds have also been observed to sing faster in cities and I don’t think god meant for that to happen. Writing about god (again), I press palm into oesophagus. I will designate your body a holy house, the bridge of your nose a steeple, your armpit a pulpit, your labia a chalice. Affix me then to each of your limbs, to the hair on your naval, your altar. Duty demands that I worship you vocally and in secret. An edge is something you can fall off, and your body has so many. You say, ‘the moon was never so thin, never had so many edges.’ If there is to be a day, let it be this one and never another.