Trust me, nimble darling. The Sun and Moon eclipse on each of your wrists when you put your arms around my neck. I kiss each one, planting my lips on celestial bodies. I've heard the map is not the territory, the cover not the book, but even wise men aim weapons at the heavens.Tools of voyage, instruments that measure the yardage of space. So I take up my sextant and astrolabe and scribe hermit calligraphy, love letters to the loveliest of lovers. I imagine you deep beneath the ocean in a bathysphere, I looking in, pining, pining. I want so badly to shatter the glass barrier but to drown you, to feel your lungs rim with anything but the air of my kisses would sharpen the blade of loneliness and find warmth in the flesh of my stomach. If I must spill every red syllable of myself to write proclamation after proclamation of my love, then I shall, only too gladly. I write only for the flower that blooms from your navel and kisses my lashes. You stand in smoke and tread in river water and I dry your ankles and calves and thighs with my tongue. When you die, I too want to die. Buried alive with no bell to save me. Just your dampen soil and white remains while my tears turn to crystal that grows over us, encasing our coupling in prismatic refraction. I will steer our rainbow canoe into the hurricane.