Travel Shorts

I wanted to crawl into your aorta
seek refuge there; sipping on vena cava
whilst gripping my pulmonary vein
which traverses time and distance.

Atrium lilies grow at the side of
ventricle lake.
I once made some out of paper napkins
blotting them with my words
and mopping up your bleeding
head when you fell off the wall.

My bicuspid valve was tied in strings
like the ones I bought for your guitar
when they were the only ones attached
to our relationship.

Now, in my upper chamber
your image is a beat
of butterflies wings
underneath my ribcage.

Our arteries play archery
and I'm close to cardiac arrest.