Man in the Moon

I've read that hands that reach

to just beneath the highest knuckle of another

are meant to entwine, much like the way

my head rests flawlessly in the camber of your neck,

or in the perfect length of your cotton shirts.

I must confess, I wear

them to feel close(r) to you,

for I would walk around the globe, steal

an unlicensed starship to flit around the galaxies,

especially those that occupy your eyes,

to plant a flag in conscience of serenity,

there and back again, simply

because there is nothing I love

more than the craters of your grin.