He traces constellations on my back
while I'm asleep.
Last night he kissed each of my fingers,
'one mores one more moment.'
I cracked my knees when he looked
at me.

I'm not much for telling lies,
sometimes the truth stings twice as hard.
He slumps over the counter,
a tower of defeat, of falling,
the tower of a fighter.

My name is carved on his forearm,
with red lipstick and fruity perfumes.
The color of his eyes bleeds when he sees me;
I'm draining him every moment he holds me.

He's weary but he's not breaking;
I falter every time the wind blows.
He grabbed my arm when I fell that way,
I fell into him instead.
My hands broke when I grabbed him.

He corsets up my ribs for me,
I hold him when I can.
He carries constellations in his palms,
and he releases them just for me.
I always cry when he looks at me
like that.

I saw him yesterday, like for the first time.
A flame I lit myself maybe years ago.
Our eyes are never empty when they reflect
each other.

I imagine love would be like that.