As always, I’m sipping the night slowly,
because I know you dwell there — it doesn’t matter where —
and fill it with so many dreams.
The trembling stars are shaken by the night wind
into my hands, widowed, inconsolable by your hair,
which still, somehow, cannot be satisfied.
The birds you planted in my heart flutter there,
and at times, with the icy blade of a knife,
I wish I could grant them the freedom they seek — to return to you.
But I cannot. Because you are so present,
so alive within me,
that if I died, I would be killing you too.
