From the doorsill where two worlds meet,
you whisper to me tender tales about us.

Your stories light up my nights,
why would I need mornings?

There is no end to your tales,
nor do my nights end at dawn.

I live in the night of hope,
you exist in the imagination of despair.

Your endless tales drained you and
brought you to your knees.

Then left you dead, there, between two worlds,
neither of which embraces your grave.

And after I was the listener,
in your silence, I became the narrator — you are my poems.

I will forever tell tales that resurrect you,
and words shall forever be our confluence.

Only when my loneliness wonders whether she created you, or whether you are her creator,
I will be with you.

There, between two worlds,
will our meeting be the same, or sweeter?