Lover

Photo by Alejandra Quiroz on Unsplash

Lover, my gut is a graveyard
of swallowed words, surpassed only
by those that have died on my lips,
fear has pulled the wings from endless birds,
so in light of this apocalypse,
here are a few that live:

Lover, I have scaled the gleaming rungs
of your spine to lick the divine ridges of
your cerebellum, and now your dreams are
dervishes skirting the pink velum of my tongue;

Lover, you taste like dying sun
sprayed across a mountain top;
the last drenching shot from the
cosmic barrel aimed at everything
we could be if we
fed our hearts
to eternity.

Lover, maybe the stars are simply burn holes from
god’s cigarette, but as I watch them jet
fire into the satellites on your face,

I find our orbits interlace.