my heart will tally through winter

for the prospect of sunbeams.

The irises of my welling eyes

will become a duller teal

and no one will notice

past my lipsticked smile.

My forehead will be eclipsed

as my vision clouds,

allowing my thoughts

to disarray into prismatic shards.

Every last melody will be yours;

therefore, I will adore them all.

My phantom fingers will

tour and explore through

your midnight mess of hair

until you drift into dreaming.

They may sweep across

your lashes, as if to strum them

like the teeth of a comb,

then down and over your freckles,

as if I could smear them

into the rest of your colors.

Should you twitch and grin,

I’ll halt my hands and allow you

to wake in the warmth

of my blush and exposure

and I’ll explain in a whisper

that I cannot sleep yet,

for there is that chance

my foolish subconscious

creates a fleeting dream

without you.