My hand lowers a knife slightly
But for you the knife isn’t willing.
During an in-flight meal, Paris bound,
You lie in pink half-moons.
I was born and raised on land
And you, in the sea.
At 35,000 feet, the center of heaven
In the deep Milky Way, we meet,
Though it isn’t July 7*
The day lovers usually meet—
Others could not admit
Your longing and my desire.