In the dark you stood,
silhouette of late hours,
yet unmistakable.
I followed every movement,
your arms clasping your
chest,
as hinges sang the opening
of Pandora’s box.
From you spilled stars,
in constellations
unfamiliar,
some anxiously hummed
pins and needles,
—spreading—
others layered in
iridescent thought,
—coiled—
I held out my fist,
turning it skyward,
open and speaking in full
moonlight,
as your tide of stars swelled and rose,
the force of their being
pulling us close.
We were infinite in ourselves,
burning brighter in the
closing of distance,
until we,
flesh on flesh,
were engulfed in flames of
righteous bliss.
E.A. O'Connell
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