Dear temptress,

Your orbit found perigee,

 the way the devil found elixir

and I found your hypnotic spell

all the more entrancing;

exotic in Central American ways,

dangerous, like the prophecies between us

being lost in some errant punctuation.

Making love on a psychic level,

astral projections of each others arms,

teasing the locks between our fingertips

like feeding thread through a needle's eye.

I sink into a delicate form of vivisepulture,

coming to rest in pieces of dreaming,

still clasping a shallow, ghostly hand,

as if it were familiar skin.

The emptiness of limbo is second only

to existing parallel to a lover,

the two never able to meet,

the fork in the road, a lonelier crossing.

Let me count the ways, again,

a supernova resembles retreating

from your lips, the way

the tide takes one more look to shore

before all the world is an ocean;

it's the same look I gave

before I almost forgot a face.

Your Special, star-crossed one