He doesn’t have to tuck her hair
behind her ear.
He loves the way it heaves
sweet with dried sweat, like crushed berries
on her pillow.
She watches him behind interlocked lashes,
breathing slightly discolored because
he’s burning her lungs right now
with that faraway look in his eyes, like they
were swallowing stars beyond her head
and she can only catch the residual grace
running down his chin.
He has to touch her to make sure she’s tangible,
so he gives in and brushes a few strands
like brown leaves into a rusty pile by the pale
picket-ridge of her ear.
When she kisses him, she can feel
her eyelids folding against reality
and he’s tightening himself around
her to anchor himself to this dream
But they’ll never be this beautiful
with autumn in her hair
and the stars in his eyes.