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I dreamt of you again and
you had become a Language.
Light that leaves. Light that
returns. I woke robbed again.

I miss you like a motherland for
which there is no desire of return.
A space scorched unimaginably.
I miss you in a million little moments,

unreprised, like the light
that leaves and the light that
visits. I miss you like the ghost.
I hold my hands into the ocean,

in a quest for you, even as
I watch your body in flames, drift away. I wish I could come back
to you as one returns to a home.

But there is no “you” to return to,
no space of familiarity. Only
the voices of absence in the
heavy draw of morning light.

And the promise of a thousand morning-lights to come, knowing I
must wander all alone. In my
sleep you blamed me for never

having loved. But you do
not know the weight of my
baggage. The way an orange
leaf can make me cry.

How all these seconds sound
without you. Every season is
too cold. Every light too hazy. Perhaps I have never really

loved and it’s just the concavity
of this world, the emptiness of
desiring itself, which inspires such
fits of despair and solitude.

The exodus of words even
on the cusp of the end, the
lust for an end — the light
that leaves and wanders.