I love this giving my life to you, or to anyone who knows someone who knows you, caught as I am in your curling hair, inside your Kashmiri-witch eyes. Held like this, to draw in milk, no will, tasting clouds of milk, never so content. Since I’ve been away from you, I only know how to weep. Like a candle, melting is who I am. Like a harp, any sound I make is music. What I most want is to spring out of this personality, then to sit apart from that leaping. I’ve lived too long where I can be reached.