The Moon being night lamp,

my eyes are a type writer.

A night of tousled hair,

I remember,

in arms of bloodstained meteors,

was lingering for other place

and different times.

Without speaking,

just with glance,

you negligently

stir the ice between us.

Their wedgie edges

stinging our eyes.

A time passed

since I don’t float

in your thoughts.

Long ago

I dreaming stopped

with your dreams.

And phone piercing

is not desired.

I am at ease –

21 grams weightless.

There was a time

when you were night light,

your eyes

being typing keys.