The stars on your earlobes give the illusion that

everything I tell you belongs in the sky. 

Or in a movie reel. You 

make me starstruck - you 

don’t speak much. 

Neither do I. These are open spaces. I like that nothing has to echo. I like

your summer curves - the

cricket-legs on your cotton shirt, the lips that won’t stop rubbing

together. You are the pond with ripples from frog noses.

The reflection of early evening on the water. This is

what I looked for by closing my

eyes.