with the sun and the garden, flitting
from thought to thought to thought but
after dark I turn into a woman
who sleeps in a bedroom strung
with tiny lights (my magical, secret cinema)
not to brighten my empty bed but
the glow reminds me of him
who flutters about the room
mute as a moth escaping the night
for the remote village of our bed
just to let me know
this remains
his permanent destination.
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