Her eyes are closed, as the moon drops down, and her superstition starts to bite. That was probably twenty years ago, with a girl I knew once. I can remember I almost cried. She was laying down on the nighttime, with the smell of the train yard creaking through the windows. With only the stroke of her arm, I could feel the softness of her life. We gathered eyelashes like ecstasy for the viewers of the world. We studied the French revolution to teach us how to move like a brown bear. But the silver-lining drew our life's in pieces and like equations on scrap-boards, we never figured our true meaning. Soon, we realized it is easier to hate someone rather than to poke a hole in their hearts. But today, I will feed my sorrow sunflowers, an odd way to make love; I will have trouble living with someone else.