I love the way you unwrap me
like a child on his birthday,
fingers trembling with the ribbons,
bright colours impatiently ripped away.
The way your lips crush the rose pink
tissue paper of my own and take their stain.
I love the way you take the confetti of my thoughts,
throw them in the air and let them fall
in kaleidoscopic patterns of desire.
I love how our manila skin matches, just so,
how it folds and unfolds, reveals and hides.
I love the corrugated warmth of our deep bed,
but most of all, my Valentine, my sweet,
I love the paper cut-out dolls we become,
afterwards: the man and the woman,
simply touching hands, touching feet.