I want to know the rhythm of his heart;
the weight of his intestines, if he has them;
to photograph the structure of his cells;
to sample his saliva and his semen.
Laid out on my table I would touch him,
mark him, map him, flay him to the bone;
I'd centrifuge his blood to know its substance.
(For this desire, friendship is a penance.)
So known to me and yet so much unknown,
my golden child, beloved specimen;
your secrets are much stranger than my own.
I need to know the truth beneath your skin;
I could go blind for staring at the sun.
Could I unlock you, I would be undone.

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