you grip the dove too tightly.
it comes apart in your hands,
white, pink, glistening, slippery.

we awake
in the burning midnight,
dionysian noise filling
the moonless sky.

she takes my hand
as we become one,
fill each other,
more than whole,
a pleasure synergised
through friction,

then
absence.

we awake
by an ocean of blood,
a crimson sky with no stars.

it has been thought
that luna longs for terra,
trapped in unconditional distance,
drifting further and further,
soon to be lost in the endless dark.

endless peace? love eternal?
or an obsolescent dream?
could a dove still fly without wings?