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.