To kiss the swollen moons of your eyes, The feathered locks of your hair Your staggering heartbeat on my palm, trembling as the planets still move.
To hold your worn hands The rough skin of old fingers that have traveled so far, countries from this ground your heavy feet now grapple.
To follow with my fingertip the creases months have carved and wash your edging eyes. To draw a tear from those dried, paper-painted pupils, black as the night sky.