you tell me your

you tell me your dreams;

you lie back with your eyes half-closed

and one arm hanging over your face

talking to me about sad orange sunsets

and the glint of the sky in tokyo,

about the movies you'll make

and the books you'll write,

your voice in rhythm, maybe

with rain on the roof of your car,

or the steady undertone of the ocean.

you tell me your dreams;

I smile at you,

and point to the moth in the corner

its soft grey wings still.

I am like that moth, I tell you,

seeking heat and silent,

occasionally beautiful,

soft, untouchable.

your face doesn't change

under the shadow of your forearm; I tell you

I am like that moth,

but without flight.