You scream, waking from a nightmare.
When I sleepwalk into your room, and pick you up,
and hold you up in the moonlight, you cling to me hard, as if clinging could save us.
I think you think I will never die, i think I exude to you the permanence of smoke or stars,
even as my broken arms heal themselves around you.
When I come back we will go out together, we will walk out together among the ten thousand things,
each scratched in time with such knowledge, the wages
of dying is love.