He whispers promises that neither of us hear, 

Safer, that his secrets always remain his, 

And mine dangling at the edge of my bed, where he lays

I melt, under his generous gaze,

For 16 hours of one lifetime, 

He belonged to me, 

For 16 hours, that could almost be a day, 

I modeled modest dreams of sand, in clay

And I pray, quietly, 

Oh how ardently, violently, passionately, 

Fate will tear him from me, I await patiently, 

For him to disguise his choices as fate, 

And mine as unfortunate 

As luck would have it, he left some dreams on my pillow, 

And no amount of rigorous washing could get the stains off, 

Now I sleep each night in his dreams

And he wanders sleepless, it seems

Well, now neither of us can sleep