She was sitting cross-legged on her bed in her white kimono, writing in a notebook with an ink pen she dipped in a bottle. 'Never let a man stay the night,' she told me. 'Dawn has a way of casting a pall on any night magic.' The night magic sounded lovely. Someday I would have lovers and write a poem after.

Whenever she thought she could not feel more alone, the universe peeled back another layer of darkness.

Poppies bleed petals of sheer excess. You and I, this sweet battle ground.

These people picked you up and played with you and then left you lying in the rain

I wish my life could be like that, knotted up so that even if something broke, the whole thing wouldn't come apart.

She laughed so easily when she was happy. But also when she was sad.

For she is my love, and other women are but big bodies of flame.