Call it the firmament:
a litany of freckle-like scars
crossing the shoulder blades where you stood.
Gracious.

Unfurling in spite
of your hadean highness.
You call it fickle
Whilst I long for re-aligning the stars.

A sweet sprawl hidden
behind a feign of shyness.
The places your mouth goes,
When you smile - that is.
That place, a sacred one, where your lips curl to meet mine.

I caution your step
and count the pace heading the storm
And your all fills the room
and the air rumples and caves,
accosting a meadow.
I breathe you in.
And your all covers mine.

And you joust, standing.
And your bony hair and your bouncing smile
Take me back
Bathe me in your running wells for another while.