In my dreams you are wearing a suit the shade of a dandelion.
My hair is turquoise in the sun, but violet when you squint.
It's my most flimsy recollection of time, the filmy sheen: a bubble of a memory.
I am enraptured with you, or perhaps it's your reflection
which glints in the sunlight, unchanged by trouble or time.

She was born with catlike, searchlight eyes
to penetrate each corner of the earth. She is the moon: Diana on the hunt.
I cross each constellation off the list in a book.
Though I could never tell you where Venus lies, I am skilled with archers and demigods:
minor mirrors of faith in the sky.

When you worship in secret, do you crumble in place?
I lie prostrate every morning to catch up on borrowed midnights:
silver tongues sown with secrets and sugar laced snowflakes,
first acidic, then bitter.
Pain makes us livid, our lungs proof of living.