You glow as if you have drunk from the curve of the moon,
your lips cupping its crater-ridden surface.
As if surrounded by a thousand glittering fireflies
as they brush you in their own personal fire.
So you glow.
On your back, you carry a mountain
of gems.
Encased in stars,
enveloped in galaxies,
encaptured by the Milky Way.
You walk a million years across this
universe,
this reality which can never touch your skin.
It is if you are made of lava,
of burning rock and death.
I mean that in the lightest way I can.
You are bolder than Saturn,
lighter than Pluto,
hotter than Mars,
livelier than Jupiter,
and lovelier than Venus.