If Shakespeare Wrote Our Play

the frozen breath would stain the night sky black, as it swallows the harmony of a lone cricket choir. your skin reflects our shroud of sweat, your teeth sacredly protest across my naked shoulders in this Moët room. The half moon comes to rest its rays, casting a former shadow on fingers that climb my ribs like desperation clings to the ladder. A want to understand what the other pretends through eyes, an impatient glance in a moment we see a reflection; my arms braced back hands full of drunken awkwardness your fingers imbedded above my chest, owning flesh tension can only releases this ache while your lips search for sound stopped by times aged hand coming to rest on our nakedness (as we become giants)