Whirling winds threw the North Star into a bed of roses.
You took it and hung it on my hair.
Guided by the poetry of its thin sacred light your ship navigated into my soul.
My body trapped you into the ethereal crystals of the Nordic sky.
When I woke up the Southern Cross was shedding tears on your pillow.
She was looking for you.
I hung her on my chest, so she could hear the beatings of your heart.
Roses bloomed on my skin.