Sunday, 14 November 2010

Accidental Constellation

I drank you in
like an illicit starshine;
an elixir full of sea-wet hair
and sandy galaxies on your face,
your forehead glittering
with our unique constellations,
your eyes hiding the Milky Way
at your tear ducts,
and our universe inside.

I was a lost star-traveller,
devoid of air and thought;
you sensed the vacuum
that opened within me,
and gave me your breath,
all fire and fuel
and lappings of salt,
to remind me I had lungs
that could ebb with the shore.

The cessations shushed around us,
its unparalleled composition
binding our rhythm,
as though the sand and sea
breathed for us,
and we were merely vessels
that conjoined its parts;
a conspiracy of the moon
and the darkness in-between.

Our new universe breathed:
Your mouth trembled in my ear
and tremors sped like comets
between our breathless bones,
and I could almost see new stars
making new galaxies, even then,
in your opening eyes,
and in the taste of the sea
on your tongue.

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