What will it feel like?

When the hour looks into my hazel glass and throws a crystal spear through my rib,
I will plunge back into a pool of my own sighing.
You'll barely hear a splash, but I will burst into a shoal of minnow,
for you, 
I casually hold my breath, pretend to fly alone and pierce a new basin for the moon.
My mind coolly swindles time.
Your raised arm and stretched torso on the sinking stratus of duvet,
beneath a smoke of stardust.
You could heat me lowly with your bloom of a lulled lantern.
The moths want your marrow, of course they do.
All of my living nature is there, and you.
The air remains heavy with muted pledge.
Our nightly routine is that you mollify me brazenly to my end.