You don’t sing anymore, your eyes said to me,
spattering me with the golds and greens
that you would never make out, just like
the reflections of streetlights on raindrops.
Your mouth whispered to me,
You are so beautiful, and
my heart bled crookedly with the
luminous faces of the stars overhead.
Your chest murmured to me, please,
thrumming the word with every perennial
pulse of your chest organ and I
couldn’t help but kiss you.
C. Brown 