my pillow is wet beneath my head
an invisible fist presses down my chest
joy and sorrow are so minutely separated
one can slide into the other
at the sound of a song
or the absence of your touch

so it seems to me, despite the idea
that these feelings simply happen
and pass though us, (and I know
this is true, and my body knows also)

that if the daylight line between
joy and sorrow is so slim, well, if I can
and since I can, I choose joy;
and the tears are the same
the pressure on my chest the same
but oh, my dearest love
nothing else is at all

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