Born Here

On your body
is a map of the Lost Continent,
spread across your shoulder, faint and pink;
You call it birthmark, but I know better
and
you don’t believe in ghosts or ghouls or magic or perfection or Mercury Retrograde
but I am suspended above you
rested on scraped elbows
and you believe in me
So,
I tell you,
it is the same thing
because you will have to kiss me
as many times as possible
before I vanish
back into the Lost Continent
a traveler, a story you will tell yourself
in an empty bed
years and miles from here,
but for now your sheets are crisp and white
and my hips silhouette against them
like we were born here
because we were