Hands.

These are my hands, take them.
Wire up the skies with lights set white with moments.
We'll pluck each one and mesmerize the past
with distorted faces of the present
Laughing, tearing pools of liquid star glaze
remembering each bleached engravement as if it was our last.
These are my hands, use them.
Milk up the night with revelries of grief.
Under these lights, these moments have no judgement
They warm up to your senses and will mirror your emotions
whilst containing the form of a thousand minutes passed
and changed by what you said or did.
These are my hands, hold them.
Wilt into them and let the lights shine without you holding them up.
Drift off to sleep with your cheek in my palm
in utter safety and confident love.
These brilliant lights won't dim tonight, or tomorrow.
When you get too tired, I'll hold your memories up 
tiptoes and heels, if need be.

These are my hands, and this moment, about to be hung in the sky,  is yours.

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