Le petit mort

He wanted to be her everything, show her in stages
how it feels to tear worlds down, and watch
with no words, her shuddering gasps, in awe
his freezeframe of 'hallowed be thy name'

He wanted to pluck those damn starry tears from her eyes
in rainy clusters, and offer them up like quasar candy
that he could pop into her mouth on any given day in sizzling July

He wanted it all -
a taste of that street french filler space
that huddled between the 'here' and 'there' in her shadowy smile

to sit back and reflect in high wonderment,
this most glorious dance of her acceptance in all things colliding

to feel the slight sway in her searching eyes,
now a strong calling unto her hips
a mirrored movement in sequence, to grace
the minding of his hands, an empty space no more,
but a merging measurement of magnitude...

with he, this bombardment of Mars red, hot delight
and she, one swirling agony of tender pink galaxy
with a timeless face that would put any angel

to shame...