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| At times when the world outside my window is sleeping but never free I like to imagine you there, standing like some god longing to be worshiped, holding a golden umbrella as |
| the sky pours himself upon you in fits of rain. |
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| And we laugh, I from inside my window, you from the street, at how foolish the sky can be to think for one second that he could stop me from running to your side. And he laughs at us because I never do. |
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| And there are times when I find myself never really complete, eclipsed by even the most mundane of clouds. Silent enough to rip |
| the sky in two stroking one half with my left |
| hand strangling the other with my right. |
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| This last time I feast upon the night like a well-mannered cannibal as he comes to me through your eyes. In you his smell is as sweet as cinnamon his taste as clean as water in winter. |
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| But now the meal is over, and I squat as if my knees give up, and I shit out the night that has somehow spoiled within me: your night that has rotted in my bowels. |
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| Like everything |
| beautiful before the touch. |
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