Matching Wings

I am in awe of the translation of your eyes,
from the forgotten languages of dreams
to the mundane world
of tangible concerns.
Like a feather that is grimed in mud
and cannot waltz
with the beloved zephyr
any longer.

I hear your voice, your whisper
then I realize I am an extension of your whisper,
like the ribbons that are tied to a fan,
like the incision that your caresses
leave on my skin
to dim me concaved,
yet bulging me on the other sides
convexed,
in the mirrors of
our matching wings.