We ran through corn fields reaching towards velvet sky,
with ghost fingers at our heels while we learned
how to make the shadows move for us. I am your gravity,
the pill that helps you sleep at night. You tell me that I am brightness,
bettering. We are the pillars, the chariots, the temperance.
Once I tried, and failed, to explain what it is like
when you step into a room. How miraculous it is, the light
that fills up the cracks.
I think this took more work than you expected.
I ask to dream about you, and in the morning am disappointed
that it was only darkness. I am told,
“It will be a quiet passage through this sorrow.”
I am told to not tell you what I want, that it is not for you anymore.
I think that I am too much fire and water to live with, and never
at the same time.
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