I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.

For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing.

Under your skin the moon is alive.

Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.

I am made of earth, and my song made of words.