I remember nights

your flesh would run beneath my fingers

like braille

in the blackness.

you’d whisper, “Read me.”

pages unfold,

origami blossoming from your creases.

the tickle of a tongue

precedes a trickle of goosebumps

that reads, “Just one more page.”

I carved myself into your diction

and wrote a narrative

filled with arson.

Pages flip quickly

before you are rendered to ashes.

I became lost in your anthology,

just to find us coupled at the end of sonnets

and dancing on the cusps of similes.

“Who am I?”

What is in a name?

held within broken syllables,

peeking at crescendos,

then falling to the pit of your stomach

clever linguistics

placed gently around your margins.

I spelled your name

off the tip of a tongue

your limbs contorted into crooked consonants.

“Who am I”

“Queen”

hieroglyphs

across your papyrus

and so I speak,”Regina”