Uninspired, I seek your body in the dark and find you naked and on your belly. The wooden slats in the shutters paint moonbeams across your back in a bar-code of light. Each panel of your skin holds a splatter of freckles and birthmarks like paint specks and tiny suns. I imagine you being the blueprint for the galaxy. The Creator placing bits of glitter onto a sheet of velvet, held between the sparkling prongs of a pair of tweezers. A moving map whose print doesn’t run in the rain. I watch the shifting of moonlight until it becomes dawn’s sun, soaking the golden glow of you in and feeling a new born inspiration vibrating in my muscles. I slip out the back door as you begin to stir, hear you moan. I think that it must be awful heavy, to have the whole universe draped across the expanse of your shoulders, and I wonder how your bones bear the weight.