She carries the night’s constellations,
scattered across her face—
a sign, perhaps,
that even Heaven leaned in too close.

Her eyes spark,
not gentle, not tame,
but like the charge in the air
before lightning strikes.

To love her
is to be burned,
and to be blessed.

Across her sweatshirt, ninety-nine names
stitched like constellations —a lover finds
a hundred reasons to say why he loves you.

A slogan turned into scripture, she wears
it close to her chest; words sweating with her
on the mattress, to wait patiently, following
all the directions from the map of her heart.

I’ll mark the landscape, paint portraits of her
in my mind’s eye —learning the grammar
of her body, and the rules of her orientation.

Inside her, every detail is an interior design,
yet all of it points outward towards me.
She proves me down to earth, grounded
by the gravity of her presence.

Her breath is thick; honest words grazing
the neck like prayer; and in silence, our eyes
speak the sentences our lips can’t form.

Love repeats itself, a devotion like unanswered
prayers, whispered night after night; to find
a surrender that completes both sides of us.

I found my Hundredth Reason.

The day was long and greedily waited,
in near unspoken secret - like a thing
delightfully and enchantingly wicked.

We are reunited - simpatico - my love, lover and I.
We ravish each other and lavish each other
with flattery, endearments and entire pleasure.

We live sweet centuries in those tight hours.

Happiness changes the tenor of things.
Rains of feeling combine in torrents,
like the tinkling notes of a harp make symphony.

Our minutest nerves are instruments of joy.

Mornings start with exquisite excitement and
the dense reel and stagger of intoxication -
because we’re drunk with the fullness of life.

Leaves on trees called chestnut, linden and hazel, stir
gently in the breeze - those faint shoos and rustles, times
nature’s fractal design - blare, in effect, like terrific trumpets.

At night, as we walk together under cooling summer skies,
the stars in the far-flung firmaments, seem to huddle together
and whisper, like sisters, of life and the mysteries of earthy love.

We are the dust of those constellations - are we but spies?
.
.
Songs for this:
Thank You My Angel by Over the Rhine
Perfect Day by Povo
Goodbye Sunday by Everything But the Girl

Let the flames arise
Miraculous phoenix wings
Burn to where you are
Scorching through the sky of dusk
To the eyes I dream of still.

This is no mere song—
It is spell and incantation,
From a time before
The gods knew their sacred names,
Etched on scrolls of drifting fire.

I cry through the book,
Shouting “I love you” aloud,
My voice looping back,
Carried by mythic echoes
That soar through the centuries.

The wings still shimmer—
Ash to ember, flame to spark—
A fire rekindled
By the longing in your gaze,
A world reformed by your light.

I look through the veil,
This plane between dreams and stars,
Where time bends and folds
Just to cradle our story
On the lips of fate’s own breath.

The elements stir—
Stone, and wave, and thundercloud—
Dancing in your smile,
Each heartbeat awakening
The phoenix’s sacred flight.

This love is not dust—
It is constellation-born,
A map inked in flame
That the heavens dare not touch,
Lest they lose their way to you.

I give all I have,
Even my stars and spirit,
To the one I love—
And if more is ever asked,
I shall give that offering too.

There is no summit,
No horizon too distant,
No fear, no shadow—
For our love is miracle,
The divine thread through all things.

Crossing earth and sky,
I would sail through void and wind,
To paint your laughter
Onto the face of the moon,
Where the gods kneel to your soul.

I believe in us—
In what lies beyond the dark,
In the secret path
That opens when two hands meet,
Even if they cross through storms.

For I saw your eyes—
Two blazing universes
That refused to die,
And I knew that every world
Was born to witness our love.

Let the world collapse—
I will keep your name burning
In each falling star,
Whispering our memory
Into every wind that flies.

This is our true myth—
Where no tragedy may win,
Where love always speaks,
Even when lips are silenced,
Even when stars fall from skies.

Yong, this sacred chant
Rises like prayer and flame,
Song and memory
Looping like enchanted loops
In a theater of stars.

Believe, my beloved—
This poem is still being sung.
No matter how far
You are the spell I repeat,
The salvation I still sing.


The lands shall now bloom—
From frost, the blossoms awaken,
Petals soft as vows,
Spilling from the mountainside
Like a promise kept in pink.

The winds will now sing,
Not of sorrow, but of spring—
A song laced with you,
In every hush of the grass,
In the hush between heartbeats.

Let this be our truth:
Love is our salvation still.
No matter the dark,
Spring returns to all who wait,
And I wait with wings for you.

I trace your name across the night,
With solar ink and lunar light,
Each syllable, a burning thread
‘Tween stars that have not shifted red
That I still count each night in bed.

I know you do the same for me
Beneath some distant canopy.
Upon your lips, my name a sigh,
A whispered vow to midnight sky
That tethers us, both you and I.

Our names are written line by line,
With diamonds set to intertwine
As constellations from above,
Devoted to the keeping of
The tacit truth of starlit love.
©️2025 David Cornetta

Follow me on Instagram for more and links to my debut collection “If Saturn Should Fall”
@sanddpoetry

I thought afar, yet never wandered.
Always saw that what I never watched.

For the distant blaze, I brought forth the horizon.
But, the landscapes turned to patchwork swatches all at once.

By Speare you drove your votives,
That which was a work of prose.
By reality, it was as an artist's pose
On a good kind of love.

For a lover is a writer,
Whether with ink & quill
Or lead & wood cylindrical.
For a lover is a writer,
Whether with chisel & stone
Or dynamite & the mountains.

Whether they write in constellations
Or draw in the sand on the beach,
Time it will take us.

For time, it shall take us.

But, in time,
Will there be that which is loving?

What say the scars unseen?

The deep peaks & valleys cut?
That which you etch
Without ever touching it?

If evidence is incrimination,
Then fleeting art is an exoneration.
Like pictures drawn in the sand,
Like lightning turning sand to glass;
As though a constellation were made from a man,
As though a mule became a golden ***.

For months I dreamed, (or so it seemed)
That I had lost Orion.
Eyes to the skies on summer nights,
Across the dark horizon.
I raked the skies, the hidden lines
To find that midnight archer.
And yet the stars, silent and far-
Did seem to grow much darker.

The Big Dipper
An asterism of the constellation
Ursa major
Seven bright stars that
Have been there
For the best and worst
Of my life that I can remember
Over the age 3
That is why I want to take a picture
Of the group of stars
As it has guided me through
Everything
Not just telling me where north is
To me the Big Dipper
Is proof of god and his/her will!
Tell me it’s just stars
And I will say that it is more than that it’s art