In every other life, 

do you think we would find each other? 

Would the same sun burn 

upon this yellowed out lamplight? 

Would I still find faith 

in the steady curve of your spine, your clay-melded fingertips? 

I’d like for you 

to let me in. 

Let me know 

what it is you need, 

and I’ll come running.
I’m afraid it might devour me whole.