The Cartographer

Mapping out your body is futile.
Yet I tried -
Oxytocin blistering through fingers
Trembling tributes,
Playing by ear in the twilight.
This journey where
I mould into you -
Negative space.
Do I want my own special map;
Contours that link your life to mine
And not a trail from another continuum
Rising to mock me and my lack of authorship
And I'm just a footnote, an acknowledgement,
A captioned constellation in an
Overcrowded sky.
Utopia is not a place but a progression,
But I need that shelter, tangible, as
These feathery lifeboats drift past
A sweaty, cold sea.