The notes build up deep within you
burning at your core
snaking through your veins until your skin hums red-hot with fire.
They say the sun is hottest
when you are just barely out of reach.
It is there you shall ignite.
But if I managed
to slip past your blistering corona
past the halo of light that surrounds you -
and stroke your scorching surface
to burn with you?
I could learn to play you
like the instrument you are.
Helios, god of the sun,
your surface shudders with sound,
unfit for such ears as mine.
Yet still I wonder what you would sound like
if my hands would not sear to touch you
when I reached for your strings, your keys?
But love, you've never needed me, in order to sing.
You're a blazing sun and
I'm a winter rain.
But still your body fits mine
like a missing puzzle piece,
even if the picture you make
is of string theory,
every strand infinitesimal, but together,
a cosmic symphony.
and my image is of love-letters,
edges curled like petals,
My rain could never quench you
but still I long to let your touch
evaporate my tears to nothing.
Gravity is not the earth pulling us down toward it,
but space, pushing us away.
Yet I too am made of dead stars;
the dust of ancient suns
lifts from my skin and glitters
in the light that shines about you.
And in that dust could you find proof
that my skin and yours could be one?
Look close and you will see:
encoded cryptic verses, whispering:
once, my essence dwelt in distant stars.
And I could be the thrumming heartbeat,
to keep black holes from your light.