My hands are tracing your
constellations from behind your
ears all the way down to your
French toes.
Need I say stuck in a limbo?,
your pelvis rising an inch higher
the lower I proceed to go.
I’m loving every bit of the
monotone, but the lows, Mm,
they grab my attention in a way
I just can’t reach.
The high notes are what get to
me, luring me into your chi like a
siren.
Submit to me while I clasp your
wrists, but insist that I take things
slow, as to weave every bit of me
into your celestial soul.
I’ll be the man from Mars, your
dreamy extraterrestrial.
Let’s go to Luna and bask in the
light, then trigger an eclipse.
Let me take you to a place out of
our orbits where only we two exist.
I want to make love far-off to
your fine print, boldness, italics,
foreign words, all of your poetic
gists.
That is a lot to concur to, but I’ll
take on all of it.
—JG 2026

