Travels

I saw horizons unfold in your iris,
Expanding like continental maps on an atlas
Scattered stars made of tinfoil.
I think I saw you in Italy,
Seventeen summers young
But I was in Greece,
Seventeen winters old.
Last night you had the sun in your mouth
You said it tasted like honey.
Before you slipped under a velvet haze
I heard peals cascading past your lips,
Laughter emptiness.