He lay naked in the feathered grass,
Tracing the constellations with his finger.
He cut a pomegranate and pricked the seeds with a needle,
Watching its heather blood stain his fingers,
I watched him,
Nodding carefully to the beat of the silence,
Watching him clap at the waltzing fireflies.
Running to the water,
He crouched and lapped it up,
Pure as oyster tears.
Twirling the moon’s reflection in the water,
It cart wheeled across the icy surface,
And rippled at his feet.
As I held his hand,
And saw the time crawl into the carcass of a dead crow.
Laying back down,
Shivering – he curled into himself,
I stroked his hair,
And a blanket of stars draped him,