Ode

It hurts me to think
of those restless nights
when I sat on your lap,
a pen in my heart;
a dove caught between my teeth.

I spilt ink upon  your night dress.
It shone silver with candlelight
and I was reminded of the mysteries
that spun starlight into constellations.
The very same
that spun starlight into constellations.

But then I remember;
the way you stroked my hair
and I remembered
the tobacco stains on your lips.
And it took the hurt away.