If words can make you immaculate
Then I will not speak for a thousand years.
Until I have captured enough of them
To stitch and wrap round your neck
Dangle down your chest.

It will be the colour of the sky, that thread
A pendant molded from the solitude of the clouds at night.
Drifting and swirling and wavering then bursting
Countless incoherent constellations.
They will be scattered on your hair and shoulder,
those stars.

When people fall in love,
They write poetries.
Perhaps,
a little like this.