I thought of you and threw
my glass of wine against the wall.

Now I’m neither drunk nor sober,
jumping up and down, completely mad.

Our eyes do not see you,
but we have this excuse: Eyes
see surface, not reality,
though we keep hoping,
in this lovely place.

After being with me one whole night,
you ask how I live when you’re not here.

Badly, frantically, like a fish trying to breathe
dry sand. You weep and say,
But you choose that.

There is a channel between voice and presence,
a way where information flows.

In disciplined silence the channel opens.
With wandering talk, it closes.