I feel the softness of you, pressed against me.
Feather-light, blood-warm, sugar-sweet saltiness
that is you in the morning.
Your lips at my throat, your hands at my ribs,
fanning across the indentations like a blind man
searching for the Braille poetry of our desire,
salt, sweat, skin. Holy trinity.
Before I strip you of your wings
and we consume what is our Fate with relish,
hold me, cover me.
Alouette, gentille Alouette.