By Sofia Lopes
A spine traced by dusty fingertips
It is night;
In dormant abandon, you rest
Lids shut, yet
Gleams are switched alight
A slight rustling in the mind
Sustains awakeness
A gentle disturbance
Flesh rendered motionless
Amidst the realm of
Oniric torpor
Your eyes seek for
Mirrored glass -
For the surface of resemblance
Your likeness glistens,
Sight dwells on
Constellations upon your chest
Asterisms uncharted, unnamed
(I see them, a distant spark;
Beads along the throat
Of a dusky dome
I touch you - a spine traced
By dusty fingertips
Milky dust, the matter stars
are made of.)