I would move mountains for you
and run rivers dry to get to you
and I would burst my lungs
screaming for you. 

And I see galaxies in your eyes.

I would sail the cosmos,
to the farthest shores,
an empty immortal shell,
and haunt the revolving doors
of the world for you.

And bow my head and raise my hands
and watch the rain knock out
pieces of the sky till everything
is mottled and gray and
stand over you and
be your shield
if you would do the same.

But at the end of the day,
when night closes windows
and locks doors and bodies away,
I cannot see when I look into your eyes
whether you would move mountains
or run rivers dry
to get to me
or burst your lungs
screaming for me. Maybe
you do not see the stars in my eyes.
Maybe my shell of a body and
all that I am are for you
a revolving door,
a particular haunt,
a foreign shore,
not much more.