Mehmet II burns in my hand while we hunt the Perseid shower under a waxing gibbous moon's white sea broadcast. Prosecco disappears inside us. You pick deck tomatoes, and conversation gets interesting by your knee.
The night doesn't end so much as folds and folds again, with us by the very center. Sinuous silk birds crease into sheets just beyond your delectable ear. Your breath a dark ribbon, a flower of steam, a door I step through on my way to the kingdom of hands.