I have dropped access to the heart of your mouth, raging against my cowardice, sinking into the pit--here you reside. You quietly wait, a fallen ribbon of red against pale constellations that I have only passed on a yellow light. Yield to the clicking of teeth crushing cherry stems with bouts of laughter. Scorch the skin of your lips and taste me, spit smoke into my lungs every Thursday at 4:00, when your palms are stained with poems so much better than mine. I never wanted to run my fingertips over the map of your body before the moon turned full, and suddenly, you were galaxies stuffed inside teardrops, the most beautiful pile of bones I had ever seen. Your blood will pulse again, with my hands over your face, whispering everything you have forgotten after the sky has split in two. You called me across leaves that looked like home, and I melted through a crack in the pavement.

I never cared much for fair hair

until they dipped your crown in gold.

And the lights have dripped into your eyes

like candles on cerulean waters, leaving me quietly ready to drown in the stars you keep in glass jars.

I have held your hand on Friday afternoons, held your face on Saturday nights, and captured your eyelashes on pillowcases during Sunday mornings.

I have watched your lips part around my name--

a name that has never charged the air until it fell off your tongue--

and I know that I want to fall into you.

I never cared much for fair hair

until you traced sunlight along my stomach with your fingertips.