What’s the opposite of an echo?
Lay your head on my chest, 
Under this waxy paper moon and
Tell me what stories hide
In the constellations of your freckles. 

Let my fingertips trace over
The epics of our young untameable souls.
Some spines though cracked, 
And some pages though torn– but you,
You always remember 
Which are my favourites.

“Have we done this before?“
“Tracing ourselves in one another?”
“Yes”, you say
and that mellow smile of yours brews
a breeze smelling of thousand dreams,
I collapse into them. Slowly, again.