it’s been
so long / the night

oh, but would it make you / happy?

He’s not all bad, Mama likes to say about father. Nor all that good.

It's the
only way I can make myself cry these days.

When I wake up in the pit of night, I look at your shoulder, the slope of your neck, and—please don’t laugh at me—I see a message.

See, that type of burning
can cross countries. I think we may have had that.