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.