I find a poem that reminds me of you
In all your restless moonlit spirit
Besides
A few discrepancies

I forget that the whole world does not have your laughter memorized
And that others, too, have owned the night
From their own little corners

I forget this
So I softly curse the author
For confusing the color of your eyes

I want to rewrite the lines
Of every beautiful, breathless, footstep-tempo piece of poetry
Make little corrections
So our story is never convoluted

Our nights spent alive are far too precious and important

Sometimes I forget that these are not our stories
Others, too, have owned the night
From their own little corners