I long to wake up
in this room where anxiety gets stuck
in your midnight cloud of a dream,
the moon exposing the white curve of your shoulder,
a tomb where I as gravedigger have buried a thousand kisses.
This is where your lips become a rose-boat
to carry me to wakefulness after I taste them.
Somewhere in your sleep you'll find me hanging
by the edge of the sharpest star that cuts the ill intentions of tonight,
whispering a secret not even this madness,
regardless of its vastness,
can hide.
