Your eyes are illuminating my skies,
twisting their whimsical shimmers,
ricochets of burning golden sparks,
simmering down in graphite ponds,
holding the green water lily leaves.

Your laugh rings in my ears indefinitely,
a deafening gong of sanctity
scaring the birds off the bare branches
and it feels like a ritual.

My hands warm in your pockets,
loving you is being drunk on strawberry wine,
eyes shinning from their sockets,
oh how your eyes illuminate my skies!

A glass of milk
in the dorm
with you
tastes like being nine
at the seaside
in my aunt's house
after a long 7 pm sea swim
in the yard
making waffles,
one with chocolate
second one with uncle's peach jam
third one with cherry jam
topped off with a glass of milk
I had to hold with both of my small palms.
A glass of milk
with you
tastes like nostalgia.

Little lady,
let me remind you,
that you needn't compare
your swamp green scars
to anyone else's,
needn't compare
your copper abilities to
the platinum ones
of those marble gods you admire,
in order to measure
a worth which needn't be measured
on the golden scales of
self criticism and loathing.
There is space under the sun
for all of us.

I like me
when I'm around you.
I like my body
when it's with yours.
I like your body
when it's with mine.
I like me and you.
And I like you and me.
I like me & you when we are in proximity.
I like you&me as close as we can be.
I like meyou conjoined.
I like you when you fuse with me.
And I like it when it's we.

The skin on your lips
is the type
of magical MacGuffin
that makes you believe
in enchanted forests
at midnight.
They swim
in the reddish blue, velvet mist.
And after all
isn't magic getting something for nothing?

I told you I dreamt
of plum colored butterfly wings.
You bared your teeth
in a warlock grin and leaned in
to kiss my fingertips.
You drew mystic symbols
on my bare shoulders
and you whispered spells in my ears,
softly.
I vaguely remember
the purple steam around us
before I was way up in the air.
And you said you wanted nothing
but to leave the mauve
lovebite on my hip in return.

Should you hold up
the hollow crystal sphere
with the glass ballerina
up to the light
you will see.
Oh, how delicately
she drags her bisque slippers
with a crackling clink
across the mirror surface!
Oh, how delicately
her folding arms
paint excuses
with an indigo tincture
in the shape of questions?
Oh, how she drops
like a wilting little tulip!