Our story has not yet been written,
that tale of mystery strung like threads of
tinsel in the blue dusk of evening-
I cannot describe in words how the distant
hymn of the stars burrows into me like a nomadic
I cannot begin to convey how the air drifts
against my lips and nose like the most fragrant
of all embraces,
like the most melodic strings stroked by
wisdom and beauty and some rush of passion
that strikes with the ferocity of a swollen wave-
I feel this when I see that brightly woven web
in the crisp of the midnight sky, strung together by
the many dreams,
beaming like crystal yarn amid the blue of the
day’s end,
thoughts of you billowing in my head like tufts of
fleece forever drenched in the warmth of summer-
my gospel,
my heady words-
our story has yet to be written,
yet our laughter can be traced in the stars
by a fingertip with eyes closed,
the most fragile of whispers that a pen could never


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