The terminal velocity of your eyes
are passages of night
trailing needles across my lips
in a soft agony of secret verbs,
my whispers are on your fingertips,
and you are both day and night in perfect unison,
the moon is a poem,
clad in your hair
I sense she loves us,
motions us to be in both worlds
as you melt into my aching arms,
burning with light
like a silent spectre,

your smiles
bleeding into the dormant, ghost passages of my eyes
to become a sonnet of morning,
and I have never seen a day like you,
the slow agony of my changing aura
erupting dreamily
into the root-like structures of your phosphorescence,
spluttering awake
with a new carbon dioxide
and filling with goodness,
as we're treading from night to day

the stars will remember us,
because our names are etched into the night
into her cosy purple gloves,
they are alive and shrilly ring
with the soft blankets of amplified insect cries,
and their exoskeletal forms,
have in turn become the landmarks
in the inner most, secret maps of my heart