as numerous as the stars under your skin

and here I am, reinterpreting the definable universe
in relation to you, the poet, and the gravitation
of your hips (the parentheticals of your sighs, the longing
in your star-ward cries, the vespertine scent lingering
on your weary skin).

I would love every piece of you. I would stay up too long
and watch the night crumble away, to whisper together
the scraps of your misdirected sanity.  I would call you perfect
when it wasn’t true, and become the answer
you spent an entire existence
suffering for.

You owe me this, sugartongue; the sweet silence
of your teeth. [this story is like a million others
rejected before it, glorifying earthbound angels:

please]rewrite the world for me.