Stab the Skies
Simply said, my dear, stars cannot punch skies
but stab with little pin size tears-
a blue-black canvas painted with suns’ demise.
Color of dark spawning our fears.
Light seeps into streets, from yellow windows.
Our footsteps soft, yet hurried,
tonight. Skylines streaked silver crash cymbals
so piercing they could wound those buried.
Yet this spring night drapes over our old hearts
beating, yours a gold gem when I press
my lips to your breath. Light rain starts-
I envision summers, rose sunsets.
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