Anticipation

I have a capacity for love that stretches every time he makes me a dust-mote in the iridescent ocean of eye-light. I’m suspended in time and in place, yet I swell. I know I could grow forever, glittering like amethysts and pearls before swine until I puncture the universe and leak out in increments through the stratosphere. He makes me stop breathing and still go on -heedless, regardless, relentless- I could suck the stars dry, but until my lips touch his I’m only this: The air you hold in your lungs too long before your first time flying.