You are the smell of dawn in the evening.

You are the taste of champagne in flat beer.

You are the storm after the calm,
that calls a sailor to his doom, and his resurrection.

You are the pupil of my mind's eye.

You are the reflection of eternity in the backside of a spoon,
held only long enough to know on a level beneath foresight,
between bites of spaghetti and pesto.

I alone can call you from the trenches
to embed your nature in the navel of the world.
Your pulse is the very river Nile herself.
And as you pour your own prediction of flooding into my lips,
I know the life you give.

The moon can call an owl to its perch.
Just as the sun can burn a wolf to its bones.
But what loss is that?
They both meet destiny at a coffee shop,
sipping on the preconceptions of their parents, transposed into prose,
whose simple words will uphold the will of the world.