Northstar Vale i miss you in the dawn & most of all, your fingerprints, everywhere (mtr.)

She, starlit and sacrificial,
muscle  sinew  metal  glass
He, stygian and enshrouded,
straining  strung  strenuous  split
lain and longing.

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In a timid, trusting intrigue, the syren crescents incrementally beneath him; minding his tongue at the thread of her life. There is an evident ache in each shift of her spring ribs; shivers upon her back, flushing autumnal.

From her place between his sombre pillars, Aurëwen reaches with her shorn mouth to his, aquiver.

A kiss for his gloom, that which she cannot  (will not, honoring)  glean the reasoning, arrives by way of pale and tissued lips upon his ashen lips and the sickle that is his jaw and the somnolent heather of his cheek. Mouthing with reverence at the cusp of lashes and the fluted, heavy-browed lids, wisping, “Lótotyë órenya quéta nin.” Here, beneath the bleariness of early harvest, Aurëwen would love him, altarless, in manners in which she had only dreamt of as a blooming heiress. In the last lights of summertide, she would give sacrilege; and even then, perhaps she would remain unforgiven.

At this she kept her temple to his, holding a moment which she knows will never come again. She was so weary, so aversive to her moons-laden melancholy; prayed that he might drape his own upon her, instead.

And then, eyes again fluttering shut, ticked downwards with a murmured dubbing of  "Evinyatar,"  Aurëwen has become an unsettled realm once more; unclaimed, uncharted. But his breath upon her ruined face draws a shiver down her spine reminds her that golem he may be, this bone and blood have gentled them.

And, here—
She wreathes with an impending pirouette; shoulders abed his mournful and dark chest; tail notched, feathering; her hips align, weighted into one of either inner heavy thigh. Breath sifting past the momentous something within her breast, the silver awaits Mahler’s ministrations ... what-ever they may be.