Dear Taylor,

I spent 30 minutes as a single cell awash in pink and oh I bled myself out through my thighbones when I contemplated reawakening because oh my god is always a Saturday phrase and your wounds are too far away for me to hear your heart slutting itself around like a washing machine inside your chest repetitive and throbbing angst so you can shed 98 percent of your atoms every year and is your soul made of atoms and is your spirit made of atoms every proton and electron so vibrating and electric blue that you spat out the window of your truck  and the velocity was too much and the bones the insulin oh the ratchet and the hyperbole are a soup of praying palms all tilted toward the equator where the world splits in half and tightens its belt and splits in half and spills itself all molten and red sideways like an abstract of your lumbar vertebrae done in warms and you will spend 2 weeks of your life sitting at a traffic light and the microcosm of the macrocosm of all the souls combined is your fingers on my stomach when I breathe every time you click an arrow against the feet of your seventeen children who will all die before you and they’ll go six in plane crashes and eleven in Siberia looking for Raskolnikov in  the permafrost but snapdragons spread up your ankles and arrested all of your limbs in perfect synchronized waves diligent and oh so irreverent before they could locate the remains of conscience and I bought this paper from a Chinese eunuch for a nickel and a dead sparrow which is now  your thigh and oh the earth is tipping again spilling its hot all over your fingerprints which are the rings of Saturn and look as if polymerase snipped you in half like DNA and made you the template for the world multiplying until the key doesn’t fit and your heaves are too dignitary for the 13 percent of the world living in deserts and you are the invention of zero and you are Hadron Collider and you are the 45 percent that my pupils dilate when I look at you are the color blue you are the only word in the English language with two synonyms that are antonyms you are to adhere you are to separate you are to cleave and you cannot reveal that your mending is my breaking down and breaking into small husks  of color and verbs so that the lizards all hover in the shadow of your feet and wait to be crushed by something better than the sun falling on their toes and them wishing I wasn’t so close behind hammocking myself between your naval and the sound of perspiration behind your ears while you replicate yourself translate your blood vessels into anemic cords and your horse was bronzed with forelegs in the air after the war was your body quivering for three hours and you waking and saying to me that you think god is a sneeze when your whole body stops in an ache a throb and your heart knows silence but you’re moving faster than sound and god revealed himself in an apple and god revealed himself in your cornea that took me in for oxygen because it was out of air and your babies dangled umbilically from your fingers sweeping kisses into your zinced and coppered hair because in Taiwan they eat their plates and you were born in the 118th ridge of a dime where we moved across the bed like rainwater gushing from the gutter in waves like waves pressing heavily passionately against the sand like sand weaving through your fingers like fingers thatched over pottery like pottery clasped to your chest like your chest rising and falling into and into each other we slammed against the hinges and rectified the absence of daisies which grew from my veins and out through the dermis and epidermis and keratinized flakes you are in Britain being hanged for an attempted suicide and we make shadows and shapes on the sheets we make revolutions and diamonds where you slept for three weeks and when you woke you said to me that the earth is a god and god is in your abdomen trying to break free from you are coffee flavored PEZ and you are the shortest sentence in the English language you are the five hearts of an earthworm you are my tongue print you are a single decibel a town called 6 a pint of honey a sandbox where Napoleon planned for battle you are the number seven the taste of chlorophyll the sound of fists and a drum and  you are every quart of my blood every synapse and each of the 21 grams of my soul