Your penchant for salt. Your thinning eyebrows. Your love for the way a throat can sound full of marbles. Your moods. Your blues. Your surplus and lack. Your hooked and hollow fingers. Your root vegetable legs. Your poles magnetized to obscure stars. Your enterprise for rare. Your philtrums and love charms. Your documentary marathons. Your em-dashes. Your thin dumpling wrappers. Your bursting skins. Your love of jade. Your love of cool and coal. Your clear crackling quartzes. Your mesmeric runes. Your raw gold and radiant waters. Your need to tunnel and mine. Your open palm. Your bell-clapper jewelry. Your peasant bread and tin-can coffee. Your listless lovers. Your smears of jam and rose perfumes. Your loose-laced bodices and wide calf boots. Your lodestars lodged like jewels in the breastbone. Your wistful jasmines. Your seas, your tinted maps, your curved, ascending highways. Your museums filled with typewriter keys, with ledgers and catalogues of letters. Your quiet calls mimicking birds.
In response to Via Negativa: Self-sacrifice.