I write these words because of you.

I have danced upon childlike fascinations,
Trudged through the deadly serious,
Seen eyes light—
Face dark.
 
I have basked in warm smile,
Been chilled by icy distance,
A passenger to your passion,
Struck dumb by the speed as the walls go up
Attended by fire and smoke.
 
Because of you I Iong,
Because of you I short,
Because of you I’m found
And lost,
Trying to inflate a blown tire
With an ancient hand pump.
 
Do I write these words because of you?
 
I see this and think of you,
See that and think of you.
Immersed in water, I think of you.
Dry, I think of you.
In light and darkness I think of you.

Alone, I think of you, and in crowds.
 
I write these words at midnight because of you.
 
Warm cloth and sharp edge have I tendered you,
Fed you, attended you,
I have heard your rare fine words.
 
I know the simplicity of your quarter, the complexity of your inner quarter.
 
My longing unfathomable
Times your distance unbearable:
The answer, unknowable.
 
I know the comfort of your aid,
Your soft voice,
Your potent attention.
 
Hearing you, I hear myself better.
Seeing you, I see myself better.
Knowing you, I know myself better—
But only a little.
 
Your scrawny body is barely enough.
Your eyes, too much.
 
This is still the dark side of love.
And I wrote these words only because of me.