She Who Awaits • Lana Bella

It's not the sunset
you cannot see,
nor the emerging
moon leaving
gold on your hair.
It's the skeleton-ribs
of her voice that
leave crunches over
the cobble-stone's
hoary grass, with
frost skims through
the perfume of night
blooming jasmine.
When the feathers of
her tremor brush
his hives of buzzing
hums, he falls into a
quiet quieter than
earth, staring across
the reach of five fingers
to eyes lodged beneath
the eaves of amber-
blue. So leaps her thin-
mouth orchid smile
that surges shivering
birds who stir his
heart toward flight.