There would be no nightfalls
thereunto your eyes but partly goosebumps
nor would be nightscapes along your brows
even an inch above their shorelines
where darkness heaves
no. When shadows dance in tip-toed pirouette to the tune of your hairfall
whose breaths breathe nothing but the fumes from your sigh.
You are but a psalm
the Tibetan monks hymn and a mantis prays with a vengeance
for three full moons bedecked with diphthongs and rhymes
only to show beyond doubt
that every squint of the lids of your eyes
is proof of all the gods' existence.
There are no sundowns
thereunder your limbs but scarcely woundscars
nor dimlights throughout the length of your nape
all the more onto its coastline
bloom. When crickets perch and croon
whose hymn chants heretofore each syllable of your name.
My breathe rests each time your eyes meet mine, my love,
for nothing falls thereto except my heart.
Author's note: Finalist September Poetrysoup International Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Poetrysoup