Whisper

I am in awe of the translation of your eyes
from forgotten languages of dreams,
to the mundane world of objects,

like a feather that is grimed in ink
and cannot waltz with the beloved zephyr anymore,
and now its dances are with the solid papers and lines.
Now it could waltz even
with the thunders,
tenderly.

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