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sleep melds
in a vat of night
    the streetlights are deathly still

unperturbed on this black book of silence
      tears tap-tap on your windowsill.
there is a special place
hidden in the space
your fingers
and the stars
you couldn't
but it doesn't change the fact
that all you can give to the world
is an awkward wave to a girl
who may be dying.
it makes sense, doesn't it?
if poetry comes from pain,
why not take the pain of every soul
and place it in your own?
wouldn't that give you as many poems
as there are tears?
a mere crack
in infinite glass.
know this, my child:
the things that burn your eyes
will also burn your soul.
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