The stars hang sleeping in a salted sky
as faulted feet tread paths worn smooth
all is stilled and all is awry
and the whispers of the wind
have nothing to prove.

The blackness is crushed velvet,
to be caressed with his touch
as distance travelled is at once
precise and all too much

for the stars are awake now
as I lie happy in this taxing grip;
he loves me imperfectly
and we are the sinking ship.