Owlish
Sleep decorates the floor of my room
like fallen stars,

the kind that have yet to reach
the atmosphere, unburned, spiraling
to the destiny of their conclusion;

I am bound up with constellations, if
you moved your hand across my skin
slowly

you could feel it echoing there, like a
candle flame reflecting in my eyes,

the shadow merely a reflex of nights
stony limb.

It has yet to touch me,
as have you.