An astral billetdoux
To move the stars in alignment with my hands
As they are embraced by yours
Celestial beings arranging our love
Across the skies.
I want the world to see it all,
Then they will know.


I grow weary of this cantata,
As I know you have as well,
Our hands actions are spoken and they are felt,
But not truly moved to touched.
I ache and yearn for the days
When we will sing our love
And caress the other's face to sleep
Our love is a musical,
And we are the stars.


It feels like we are antipodes,
Standing on opposite ends
Of this engorging earth,
As if it plots to separate us in the abyss of its shadow.
But even the mightiest plans falter
And wavier
And fail
When challenged by such great faith,
Our faith in one another.


I am not an artisan
My hands can not make shapes
Or write with colors what the eye can see.
But, my hands are not untalented enough
To move transversely to your porcelain skin.
And my words are not fumbled,
I paint with them what my soul longs to feel,
The warmth of your spirit again.
I am not an artisan,
But I know I make you feel beautiful.


For the day when daisies would grow among your hair,
For the day when I would tuck you in and read you to bed,
For the day when you would be sick and I will feed you,
For the day when my hands breaks in your grasp,
For the day when our children are all away,
For the day when their children sit upon our laps,
For the day when we are both no more,
I will stand by you forever.
Then forever more.

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