Do you recall that time?

You were resting your head on the creased pillow
while my palm traced the patterns of your moles.
I'd run the tip of my fingers,
almost without weight,
on your bare skin, and
draw the constellations of unremembered stars.

Cassiopeia, I'd say.
Or Betelgeuse, the hand of the giant.
Antlia. Cepheus. Pictor. Pavo. Musca.
Orion the Hunter.

Do you remember those times?
I guess not.

Because you've always been the blind and
I've always been the poet.
These wonders escaped your notice --
you dull, specious creature with
your dull, specious brain.

Those moments were spectacular.