Sweetly you call through the hush of the pines,
cinnamon wind spelling both our names;
I answer in honey, slow off the tongue,
folding the night like warm pastry seams.
Sugar-moon climbs, drips silver on skin,
every shy star learns the shape of your grin.
We chew the dark hours, they taste of marzipan,
laughter left sticking where fingertips ran.
Keep the dawn waiting—let clocks stand aside—
while we melt, ever soft, on the long edge of night.