if I called you

Your skin is like cat-flaps, I tug on scar tissue, spluttering
chewed up adjectives all over.
You did not believe me when I said 'you are a camera
snapping shut, your flash is too close
to my iris and I choke on the slouch in your stare'

You thought you were more of a photo album, an open book
with a spine that arches when I kiss your happy endings
then slap you shut, because I care about things
like the colour of your finger tips
and when you do not have time for dinner.

If I told you that you push yourself between my eyelashes at night
and leave red footprints on my cheeks for days,
what would you say?
If I told you that sometimes there's a dent
in my left rib cage where dust settles and smiles drop out,
would your chest ache too? If I told you I wrote this poem for you
at 1:07 am to stop myself calling you to say I miss you I miss you I miss you over and over
until all the water-yous loosen, meeting the carpet
would you say you miss me too?  

I tried to unhinge my hair from your teeth, tried to pull my heart
further my way, I tried to look for somebody else to staple skin
back to my knees and to put the oxygen back in my toes,
but they did not have brown hair and a funny name,
they did not have a way of saying all of the right things.

It's 1:36 am and I'm still here thinking your skin is like cat-flaps
and I'm tugging on dead tissue, still spluttering my heart
all over.