Meeting her
in a worn gaze,
I wish I could
shatter and hone
my bumbling stare
of daggers into a million
pretty needles, gingerly
prick and explore
each star
in the galaxy
of freckles adorning her
impossible skin,
every one a souvenir
from a sunbeam
that has kissed her
lightly across a history
just out of reach
of curious claws,
then move on
to her blank spaces,
eager and gentle points
holding black ink,
and dive in
with the heat of a solar flare,
and the smooth ferocity
of a wild cat.
– Connor Storms
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