I am staying up all night with a body tired from labor and a heart alive with quick remembrance.

And you are not to blame, you are but water and laughter Both of which somehow slipped into me.

Now in the cold, the stone heart slowly splits. I am trying to hold it together. What is the cure for all this?

Not you. Yet it must be you. Quick hands are required to pull out the thorns: the accidental brush of hands, glances.

It would have been better to be stabbed clean with a knife, one deep stain, one color. Now I am a foolish polka dotted cloth.

I pity myself and my wolf of desire, which wants to howl at the moon all night.

Does the moon ever answer?