Sometimes I dream that I
can draw your likeness
on the window pane
as I stare at Ligeia Mare
and you come alive
softly through the glass.
When in the dreams I trace
these almond shapes upon your face
I feel a bridge between
my broken chest and Titan.
Just then,
your stare is like a poem
reading my own eyes.
You wink and we float down
with wing-like lashes
to surf the methane lakes.
Nothing is said,
your irises whisper.
But in the waking hours
when I really draw your eyes
looking at me,
my reflection breaks
and the canyon-cracked moon
badly compliments your outline.
And, nothing is said
upon reaching the dark side
when the humidity
streaks your pupils
in a cry,
until all I can see
is my breath
and then the
blurring, dark
vacuum of space.