The Stinging

I oiled in the slick of her. Tracing my hands where lips fell like jailed Casanova. I am naked as my journal quill eyed and silent, Incapable of joy. My body's a masterpiece of scratches and whispers that scream to be heard again. She sleeps in a steel wasp by a window seat next to honeyed skies, and I am left stinging In a silent satin hive. A wedding veil of sky will one day fall like we did, and we will dull stars, as we shine amongst lost worlds.