I walk with a dual longing for life and for death.
Tonight, I won't dream, because nobody has held me and no hands have strayed and even though I'm drunk with love, my arms are empty.
ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.
I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.
