Surgery

I remember how your touch
lights my body with sunshine,
the cloudless blue
that glows in your gaze.

You have a heart
weathered like a rock
worn by river currents
then warmed by summer heat.

I wonder if the surgeon's knife
will trace scars in the tempered surface
and open wounds that tether you to me.

I worry that the rock will turn to dust
in the chill of the anaesthetist's dream.