Wordle #169


I stitch the eclipse stirring

In the cheeky blue of your irises

That the blackness

Will not engulf me.

A shot of stars assemble

Piecemeal in your throat

In the manufactured room

Between your elegant thighs.

There are a million honors

I could bestow but compared

To your name they are lackluster.

I grip your sides,

Salubrious fluids merging

After a triumphant hike

Through your wilderness.