My tongue twists into crazy
of not being complete:
like the flowers you left on my pillow
to fathom the braids of my hair.
On this auspicious day, my mind drifts
to thoughts of you.
I wish the world could’ve seen,
that I have kissed you at every point
of the Triangulum constellation.
It is there, I will kiss you again
and again, over and over; watch your
soil run through my veins, with flowers
blooming from your collarbone.
I know, I will decay some day,
but not alone; perhaps my language
is adequate enough to paint you into
constellations, into something so
intricate, even the thought makes
like when moonlight kisses your bare
skin; and you place a red rose there,
then you weave and knot yourself into me,
and teardrops bloom into winter stars
falling from my cheeks,