Sonnet Sequence: Pas de deux

If I had a ticket to the ocean,
I’d prove that stars within the sea exist.
I’d pluck them out and wrap them on your wrist,
gifting you celestial promotion.
To the mountain, in a single motion,
we might go then—for nothing must be missed.
I’d grip the sky and grasp it in my fist,
bring it to your lips, a mordant potion.

We’d eat my flesh and dance a pas de deux,
overwhelming silent blossoms, snaking
along the universal roads we knew.
To keep your tiny heart from aching,
I’d give you balm of Gilead’s debut
that I’d plucked from numinous remaking.

Then I’d prove to you my sad devotion
by leading you so deep into the mist
that dusk would settle on your spine and twist,
washing over you, a soothing lotion.
Then you’d understand my strange emotion—
the times I laugh at night—or tears persist—
because it can’t be told or reminisced,
just experienced in its commotion.

I want to show myself in full to you,
but it seems you never feel that quaking,
because you’ve never tasted stars or dew,
never worn the sky. And all my shaking
and all my knocking will not pull you through,
and the door won’t open for your faking.