The map of my heart has long,
slow kisses at its center
where my journey began
The first was on my forehead
by my father
When I was a wee one
The last, I cannot remember when
I am not sad-I carry vivid memories
Of some-special-body, always
The map of my heart has soft hands
With velvet fingertips traveling
Slowly all over my body
with shivers of passion expecting
the pressure to increase in increments
And it does as the kisses plunge
deeper into my soul
Though I am no longer dewy
I am not yet through with mapping
My heart with memories of
passion and tenderness
an outside mapmaker
I am my own passion and tenderness
I map my own heart-I choose…
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