W-O-R-T-H

And shall I pick the grapes of your regret over higher orbs set just beyond my height? Earthbound by sorrow's vines, shall I forget the farther, brighter parliament of night that winds a trellis wrought to bear Orion? I'll snap them with the sickle-hanging moon; then, pressed in verses, fruit of the divine, I'll breathe them while you sleep to ward your room. I'm now alone, but rhyme might dedicate tomorrow and tonight to intertwine; and if I wait, our minds could constellate. We'll taste on linking lips an astral vine. So fill your cup with skies and words and hours— I drink alone to you: the night is yours.