When he speaks of moths,
I know what he is thinking,
how in death they turn
to dust.
With you I am a burning
tree. I give you cherries
in the hope that I will stain
your fingers.
Your eyes have felt acid
rain. Your transparent
gazes soak my branches,
but my roots remain
parched. They fear the folds
of your skin, the power
of your steps
towards me.
What do I consist of without
you? What do I consist
of, when without you I turn
to dust.