You glow as if you have drank from the curve of the moon,
your lips cupping it’s 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 as 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.