Reclining on our backs,
we wonder at the sky.
You point to the abyss of potentiality,
and, tracing her tattoos
with your hand in the air, mutter,
There, like the closing

to some sacred ceremony were we've

united halves into wholes, and suddenly

I do

spot a falling star, and wish

to be the twin of your essence

and for however long forever is,

drink the glittering moonlight in your eyes, if you'd

let me tell you everything I'm thinking,

and I'm thinking that,

wouldn't it be divinely suitable if

we, alone, together, both half of

the same constellation,

drifted about the snow-white night,

our dreams tumbling from our tongues like

a waterfall from the basket of

the water-bearer?