I fired up constellations burning my finger tips on wooden matches. I must confess to changing
the password at Orion’s Gate. The necks of broken unlit matches look lonely as fuck, unused and uncradled in a blue abalone shell at my tits. The stars are on simmer, for now.
The wind is colder up here and I am sure he didn’t mean to make me cry. Gray pelicans sleep like a nursery of newborns being rocked. I blow the frankincensed pit of my arm to dim our stars with the strongest respect and strangest royalty I’ve ever offered.
The clouds have no cordiality up here and I am sure he wanted me grounded on his lap. The sky is a charcoal colliery with seared love and unused love embers under, too. I want you every morning in this bed for a long time. Come here and we can just love each other.
I need to remember the password to light the unused matches. Orion winked and unwrapped the strangling fig boughs enclosing his portal door. We all long for that kiss that opens a thousand doors and that smooch that shares a thousand passwords.
You are that kiss that left me hanging from you a century ago. Maybe unlit wooden matches evolve into lightning storms. Sweet dreamer, give me your password so we can pick up where we left off and I can move this abalone shell to a safe shelf.