Fireflies in Your Eyes

You know, just seconds ago,

smoke rose in thick, winding plumes.

Restlessness has been exhaled,

carried away,

drifting between us on its way to the glow in your eyes.

Do not close them again.

My mouth is no longer locked.

Under the bare, unflinching moon,

I will watch your eyes

turn into fireflies.

How many nights have we spent like this—

your fingers tracing the air between us,

my breath catching at the edges of your name?

There is no need for words tonight.

Let silence settle into the space where our bodies meet,

where longing lingers like the last drag of a cigarette,

its ember burning long after the smoke has faded.

The night is stripped bare,

and so are we,

wrapped in the hush of unseen hands,

in the flicker of something ancient,

something unspoken,

something more honest than sound.

I have seen your body in stillness,

but never in surrender.

So let me watch—

let me see your shoulders ease,

your breath slow,

your skin open like the first light of dawn.

Do not close your eyes.

Let me witness how the world dissolves in the dark pools of your gaze,

how your pupils expand like a universe unraveling,

how desire dances in the quiet hum of your lashes.

The moon is undressed,

but so is time,

bare and boundless,

spilling through the gaps in our fingers.

Look at me.

Let me see the glow before it flickers,

before the morning arrives to tell us

that fireflies were never meant to last.