Is not as liberating as travelling thirteen whimsical days

From Brindisi to Milan with nothing but twenty three

American dollars to an ever changing name



Nor is it more dream-like than drifting along the Kashmir Valley

Where the sight of a cold AK-47 is as rare

As the nitrogen in the air that you and I breathe.



And to be the one laid here beside you in the pale moonlight

Is no great compliment either (nor is it illuminating in the slightest).

Your cruel criticisms fall on me like hollow conversation;

Like those gentle petals that fall on your windowsill.



Those are my flooding tears failing in the rain



Perhaps my time would be better spent reading

A novel in a language entirely foreign to me

Than pretending to sleep here beside you.



It has always fascinated me

How the fields of your hair part in three different ways

And shine red under the lights of these eyes, and these eyes alone

And how we’re always alone (even when we’re in company).



Tomorrow I will read a novel

In a language entirely foreign to me

There will be silence on my radio

And every word will remind me of you.