Weakness at 3AM: what if I wrote you a letter, just a short one, a little note, asking how you are. Or: I miss you. What if I just sent you a poem, or a song, or Egon Schiele’s Embrace?
I walked away and went to another room, just so I’d stop.
Look at the birds. Even flying
out of nothing. The first sky
is inside you, Friend, open
at either end of day.
The work of wings
was always freedom, fastening
one heart to every falling thing.