the light of dawn on your lips
is poetry. i am a poet like
a candle is the sun, and your
skin loses me where it is so
soft beneath my silent palms.
the mist of dawn is your breath on my skin,
and i am scrambling for words to put this sensation to paper-
but it is difficult to write neatly on nerve endings.
i inscribe the inside of your iris
so you will wake to a dream that is yours only.
there is already love whispered into the swoop
of your ear and your lashes lead me to a story
we have impressed on our insides.
it reads like forgotten fairy tales on dusty shelves,
washed in hues of gold as the sun slowly uncovers his blushing face.
he is too modest, i think, to see us in this moment, with your dreams still frosting the windows
and the echo of my longing playing softly on the wind.
so i feather the vespertine glass with fingertips
where lambency stains the world with colour. the lingering
linen suggests a memory that the outside cannot sweep away.
will you divine the shadows when you stir?