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.