You unscrew the jar; Orion’s climactic sigh spills—  
A cello’s low A hums—our triad, C and E—the night skies.  
Your thumb caresses pulse down my throat, andante, it drills  
through myth—not his hunt, but the damp heat between our thighs.  

We’ve plucked Lyra’s rusted chords, restrung her spine  
to thrum with your breath, not some dead muse’s cords.  
Stars crack like old records; we skip, we refine—  
our bed, a cradle for light, shed our sheer white peignoirs.  

You fear the jars dim? Let me mouth the black core  
of Cassiopeia—choke her brittle groan,  
then laugh as you arch—my crescendo, your score—  
each note a plum’s burst where her language had flown.  

Your teeth score my shoulder. The dark soars, unconfined—
We swallow the arias. Let the void choke on mine.