I concede that you are not a terrorist
That you are a man of passion
Who happens to enjoy the sight of fireballs.
Do not remind me that the sand slipping
Between your fingers is not the same
Substance beating within your heart.
Not that stars shine steadily and only
Appear to blink when filtered by our atmosphere
Filled with protective gasses.
The Sun shines all the time, not only when
Visible to my eyes–Kena is awake in Perth
When I sleep and she sees it bright.
A woman I knew well for a short while,
A vacation years ago to the other side of the world
A memory that burned bright.
I sleep and dream of your fireballs blossoming
With agony and bloody trails facing away
From Kena, whose back is turned forever.
She no longer sees the Sun while I sleep
No longer writes me beautiful letters
Of the feeling of sand slipping through her fingers.
BillSaysThis 