if i could travel into your incandescent loneliness,
maybe i could understand it—it meaning “i.”
you were a woman staring out a window when
a pen grew from your eyes, those silver coats that
kept you warm inside yourself: you could never
bring yourself to lie.

dear emily, if i could light your candle by that window,
maybe i could see it—it meaning “us” or “we,” more like it—
women dim inside themselves like dying house lights,
shuttering eyes before sleep, we never needed it:
the world we picked like orange
strings from our teeth.

emily, if i asked you, could you tell me what it means—
it being the self or the soul or whatever you want to call it—
you are always more eloquent than me,
& could you tell me of its sadness strange as branches
drooping from trees that were so strong before
you looked at them, out the window

you sit beside, a life.

sweet emily, you were never meant to cry beside a window.
sweet emily, please take your pen & breathe.