When I stole your legs, I ran breathless against the wind and watched you writhe and crawl; and we laughed for still we saw not eye-to-eye. When I stole your lungs, I screamed the sunshine up to warm the air you used to gulp; and we stared for still we’d never share our thoughts. When I stole your heart, I feared I was a metaphor for something trite and small; and I buried you, unlimbed, unlunged, unloved, the phantom of a paragraph.

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