My eyelids refuse to kiss, wide,
they retreat far into dirt and sky.

The bottom lid is too occupied
with the layers of black fudge
frosted below both my eyes.

The top cap, too green to budge,
starts a secret affair with the lady
wearing a fur scarf up on my ridge.

They ***** with needles of hair
to make their once-kin bleed red,
but the only veins that appear

are on the black and blue gem
swaddled in my glossy white quilt,
cracks of lava in its wet soft nest.

My eyelids refuse to kiss.
They fight like street lights built
over the glow of neon signs.

My eyelids refuse to kiss,
but my lashes grow lush.

When the sun rises again,
an eclipse covers them
with a final wink, a touch.