What is it the wind whispers on your cheek my finger tips long to hear
What effulgent echoes of sunrise render each tear
What facsimile of midnight your finger tips whisper back
What ancient childhood secrets parade behind each eyelash.

Oh, how my fate lifts by the curve of your hips
How condemned I am hell-bent by the swerve of your lips

Such language infinitely dancing loosely upon your palms
Such remedies recited by your resting tongue
Your mandible sacred where my universe began
Oceans devoured between us by our patience