mcsomething

orpheus to eurydice

can i tell you
why i love you?

can i tell you of
the curve, your neck, the moon
the silence, your eyes, the night--

i stare at you, the star
and see
a thousand resting mysteries

taut against
the inward surface of your pale skin
like pomegranate seeds,

sightless, soundless waiting.
to burst the tender skin.
red juice. white light.
my love.