The love I felt is not love, perhaps—
affection, attraction, infatuation, fluctuation,
and so on, and so on.
I do not care what it is called;
I do not know the source of this emotion.
I only know: whatever I am feeling feels true.
My body shakes—my fingers, hands, and legs—
and my heart, it shakes my heart.
This alone I know:
it shakes me when I think of you.
And you are here, at the next door.
You are here in this same city, this same morning, this same rain,
and this same sparrow, surrounded by—
yes, of course—the same world.
You are here, just beside me, in this galaxy.
Yet it feels so distant.
At the same time,
I do not want you to enter this room.
I am drowning in the notes of separation.
I am drowning in your separation.
Do not come to me. Do not enter this room.
I cannot see you—for it is beyond seeing.
I cannot speak to you—for it is beyond meaning.
I cannot stand before you—for it is beyond measure.
I cannot exist—because you are me.