There is a way you glow,
wrapped in sheets (entwined in them).

Pale and thin, the skin is delicately translucent,
like you are about to break out of whatever shell it is you are confined to.

Collective memory tells us we too will be old, --but time, there is so much time (you always say to me).

I hate to disenchant you with this: ah, my dear, there is not.

Don't let this shock you, I see it even now. The beginnings in your eyes, it is harder now to ignore. Why do you always look so tired?

Why are you always watching me? It is hard sometimes to know the difference between what is me and what is this empty dying thing. Where does it end, and I begin? What are you looking at after all?

This empty, dying thing is beautiful (you always say to me) but,
I know it is only a failing thing,

and I am only more and more aware of the confines of what a body has to offer, however brilliant.

When the window is open, and there are noises from this or that town, I hope that I will at least remember this--

and I hope that you will remain unafraid.