Pass me your curly hair
I shall spin roses out of it
Stitch them
— on the hem of your dress
Plant them
— betwixt your elegy

Night falls slow on the turfs of your cheeks
Its soft silhouettes settle deep on your lips
I shall lick them
— and form sticky nightly caramel for you
I shall pick them
— and put together nightly canelés just for you

Your face won’t crumble like that of other dead folks
Your eyes will shine like the very black stone of time
Your skin won’t wither like that of other dead folks
Your blood will tide like the black stream of light

Bring me your sweet end
I shall put a ribbon around it
Hang it
— at the door of your unrequited loves
Decorate it
— on bookmarks tucked for your second reads

Night falls slow when it knows it is going to take
Night falls soft when there is a woman’s breath on it
Night falls plush when there is a song folded into it
Nights falls but doesn’t touch the earth
                                    when you happen to be barefoot

Your frail fingers, blue nails
— have held jute and silk
Your tight neck, round ribs
— have kept their moist beginnings

You are milk, my love
— one that is smoked with dusk
You are night, my love
— one that has fallen slow on itself


Painting - Oil painting by Andrew Stevovich, Interior at Night. Public Domain