from love is a watched pot that never boils

november

he runs his hand,
slowly undoing
the tangles in her hair
letting smooth strands run atop
the webs of his fingers

in this universe,
all is enveloped in black,
freckled with the lights
of the dying stars
but there is a heart
that reverberates with
his same pitch

a heart that
beats like the dusk,
orange and yellow
and brighter than
the thunder and flash