In each of your nights, I will find place only in your memory room, not in your living room; I know. Yes, you will build a life with me too, but I won't be there—only what remains of me will be!
You'll have joy-wrapped picnics, but for want of one drop of gentle peace, you'll gasp for breath. I don't want it to be so, but perhaps tranquility then, riding on snow-white dove wings, will fly away somewhere distant, sulking hidden in blue horizons.
In those nights of yours there will be a jasmine-large moon, and I'll be there too; but even having me, when you calculate how much you've lost, you'll see that nowhere in the city is there a speck of sleep...though that very day you were showing dreams clinging to lampposts in sodium light. Even your sleep might then mistake the sound of our faith breaking for a recess bell!
In moonlight or on moonless nights, cool wind will whisper through the window, cling to your lungs, you'll sense...this is nothing else, this is... me... but still you won't have me anymore!
I know, you'll receive many touches, but mark this well—no touch will be able to reach you anymore.