Things I Think About When I Wake Up Next To You

It’s early morning;
you’re asleep, I’m awake,
and I am watching the sunlight
form golden lakes
in the curve of your neck,
the dip of your waist,
the crook of your elbow,
the planes of your face.
I am watching the sunlight
set fire to your skin.

Your back, littered with freckles,
is a map of the stars;
I am the astronomer
immersed in your constellations,
the astronaut ready
to sail among them.
With a sleep softened finger
I trace invisible lines between them,
creating routes to infinity
across the sky.
I leave a kiss
the size of the moon
between your shoulder blades.

You turn to face me,
sleep dust clinging to your eyelashes,
fragments of faraway places
you traveled while you slept:
stardust, perhaps, or ocean sands.
I study the lines
on the palms of your hands,
and wonder
why you would return.
I pull you closer to me.

You stir again
and we finally meet
on the edge of a dream,
on the verge of time,
on the borderline
between whisper and sigh.
In your embrace
I prepare to fly,
to shoot and soar
into the cosmos.

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