Beloved,
tonight I bring my whole foolish republic
to the wide republic of your chest.

I arrive with my cheek as a petition,
my mouth as a signature of heat,
my hands two humble ministers
negotiating treaties of warmth beneath your breath.
Under your collarbone—the border—
I declare myself citizen.

Your chest:
not a prize but a province;
not inventory, but invitation.
It is the law of hush, the senate of pulse,
two round parliaments of tenderness convened by your breathing.
I attend every session with my ear.

I say ridiculous things because desire is ridiculous:
I would pay taxes in kisses,
file for residency under your buttons,
build a small embassy of fingers
in the soft diplomatic valley where my worries surrender their passports.
Stamp me again, and again—
let the paper of my skin carry your warm visa.

Your chest is a bakery of heat.
I come hungry; I leave crumbed with light.
Your chest is a pair of amphorae
pouring patience into my restless noon.
Your chest is a shore where my storm
learns to speak in smaller waves.

I study its geography without stealing it:
the bridge of bone where my breath becomes careful,
the slow hill of rising air where I climb with my lips,
the wide plain where my palm finds its country of yes.
I measure nothing—
the amplitude teaches me surrender by itself.

I tell the truth:
I want the furnace of your chest,
its tender weight, its living pull—
the way warmth gathers beneath cotton and becomes a secret orchard.
I want to read with my mouth,
slowly, the patient alphabet written there:
letter by letter, breath by breath,
until every vowel turns to honey in your name.

Listen—your heart is a bell under evening,
and I am the village that stops to hear it.
The sound enters my jaw,
travels to the stubborn rooms that speak in coins and headlines,
and tells them: be quiet, she is here.
The rooms obey.

Your chest is bread that remembers the oven;
my worry breaks open on its softness and goes still.
Your chest is night’s mantel—
I slip beneath and my hands become reasonable.
Your chest is the book I re-read with joyous impatience,
skipping to the good parts:
the heat, the hush, the little thunder that says continue.

Absurd? Yes.
I wish to mortgage the moon to buy more time there.
I wish to appoint your chest Minister of Mornings.
I wish to rename the calendar after its textures:
Silkday, Hearthday, Lantern-eve.
I wish to place a tiny ladder on your sternum,
and climb until my mouth finds the windy balcony of your breath.

When you laugh, the field trembles:
wheat under sudden wind,
and my hunger scatters into a thousand bright birds
that all dive back to the same warm nest.
When you sigh, the lamp leans closer.
When you say my name,
your chest pronounces it twice,
and both pronunciations burn through me like cinnamon and sun.

Let me be clear, without hunger’s mask:
I love your mind, the builder of windows;
your voice, a clear street through night;
your kindness, the city where I live without fear—
and I love your large, generous chest
because it houses those cities and keeps their lamps alive;
because it offers my face a country of forgiveness;
because it answers every foolish vow with heat and shelter.

Here is the economy we practice:
I pay with breath;
you give me change in warmth.
I press my ear to your left horizon
and the sea inside you presses back.
We bargain in whispers;
we settle in heat.

Let others praise meteors and crowns—
I praise the double lantern of your chest,
how it makes night negotiable.
Let the bed be our parliament,
the sheets our acts of law;
your chest, my only constitution.

Afterward—after the sparks,
after the honest labor of closeness—
I rest there, face to sanctum, and the world recedes
like a loud market closing its doors.
Your scent—sleep, salt, cotton—
signs its name across my cheek.
I keep the signature.

And if I am extravagant with adoration,
forgive me; gratitude has poor table manners.
I will send postcards from your collarbone,
ink them with steam,
and in the place for the stamp I will press my mouth,
hot and slow,
until the message arrives:
I am home.

Beloved, I pledge myself to this ordinance:
two breaths, one after the other,
exchanging a small fever until even the dark feels welcomed.
In the wide, tender country of your chest,
I am not improved.
I am made human—
and the room learns how to burn gently.

-- Jeffrey Phillips Freeman

I was challenged with writing an obsessive and lustful poem about a man obsessed with a woman's breasts. This was the result.