The Hourglass

I touched your crescent lips,
beneath the waning moon
As the sparks of dying sunset
had brought me back to you.
Laughing, dancing, twirling,
in recession of the forks
Turning hours backward, like
you'd never left the morgue.
Opening the window,
to flow the summer breeze
hiding under covers
from responsibility.
All our days returned,
to count for only one,
the vanishing of stardust,
beneath the rising sun.