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Poem

Her laughter startles the morning air -  
a flock of starlings scattering  
from power lines into  
the cathedral of her collarbones.

She moves through rooms  
unaware of how doorframes  
arch like devoted suitors,  
how dust motes waltz  
in the wake of her sweater's  
frayed hem.

Dawn writes psalms  
along her jawline with  
fingertip-brushstrokes of gold,  
while twilight pools liquid obsidian  
in the hollow where neck meets shoulder
two languages of devotion  
arguing in hushed tones.

Mirrors shrink from their task,  
offering only fractured truths:  
a strand of hair out of place,  
a smudge on her glasses.  
They never show her how  
sunset blushes at the honor  
of gilding her silhouette,  
how midnight ink bleeds  
through notebooks trying  
and failing to capture  
the slope of her shoulders.

The world keeps its secrets  
in the parentheses of her smile,  
in the way her hands  
reshape sunlight into something  
that might fit inside a chest cavity  
without breaking ribs.

Her breath etches constellations
on windowglass - ephemeral
hieroglyphs of heat dissolving
the pane's fragile theology.
Even her shadow, poured backward
through time's hourglass,
wears the cosmos like a locket,
while every vanished instant
ignites beyond the stars
we strain to claim.

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