The window lets in the moonless hot summer
as the breeze rifles through the sheets
looking for our bodies.

Your fingers dance  over my palm,
absently tracing the lines of my life,
the stories hidden in my skin.

Oh, if I could touch you!

On the precipice of your lips,
shyly tremble the promises you cannot beleive
and will not give.

Your hand leaves.

Still and silent I hold myself.
It as if each star from the sky is dying
and as the stitches of constellations unravel,
and the black blanket of sky falls.  

And dark summer rules our room.  
Your face invisible, but I can hear your breath still.
Like the far away waves of a retreating tides.
But there is no moon, and you will not return.