the dark flame of your irises
consume the small luminescence
of an early moon,
voiding any reflection.
your hair erupts, caught by an errant
breeze, black and writhing against the
fading horizon. porcelain fingers
capture it. I return a stray strand to the
confinement of your hand.
your skin is soft and cool
as the evening air.
It belies the symbolism.
The ghost of our breath mingles lasting
just a little longer. I would
kiss the stain of your lips
but this isn't that dream.
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