The Same Window

Deep in this furnace, I fall asleep.
When I am sick, I do not think
of another place other than this bed.
The room doesn't spin.
It is still, warm, full of the same light,
which has passed through this window
all day long.

I have been up once or twice to refill my cup.
I did this with trembling limbs,
the leafless ashes full of sun and silence.
When I think of you,
to whom I am given and give nothing
that we could ever give,
I sink into that tender blankness of my head.

Some say sickness is the remedy for forgetting
that an immutable relativity of happiness
grows heavier as it is grows stronger;
when we are sick we are capable,
only in the reality of our sickness,
to picture the world again as it is
without ever changing it.

While I lie here, in front of you,
you are years away, and this sickness,
which too is too far to tell,
may be a reflection in the window
of when you first met me.