Nervous butterflies line my palms with coronal patterns:
silent, colorful eyes that erupt with the crunch and
scald of evolution.
I set a trap of future lullabies and pet names
under your patiently restrained eyes
(which twitch and pause with the muscled power
of romantic possibility).
The wisping curtain of our harmoniously whispered song
flows from the stringed instrument of our meeting eyelashes
and penetrates our concrete-carved defenses
with the sun-kissed beauty of our outstretched,