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I was slipping, slipping, slipping, and there, in a grave colder than Mars, next to the soul I’d loved for a hundred lives and lost in every one, we took our final breath beneath the indifferent stars.
“Though, without you, there would be no poetry.
Like houseplants in straitjackets. Insanity, domesticated.
he was my true homeland;
the way the poor lived in the narrow cracks between the rich like ants in the grout between tiles,
I will always be yours. But I gave up the right to call you mine a long time ago.”
I had always found a way to live with the grief of the loves I had lost—to
