The way flowers
twist themselves
to face the sun;
I do the same
at the moon,
at you.

At the darkest hour,
my despair has grown
around this fortress:
an indivisible field
of sunflowers.

What does it take to live
in this patch of grace?
To become the dewdrop
freed from quenched lips;
to become the day
that waters an endless
garden of galaxies,

that sprout generously
and rot willfully
inside every cell;

to live in a body
called a nebula
and a graveyard,
knowing in the end
I will inevitably
become soil,

to belong to you
and to the world,
and learn
how to breathe again.

But this fortress
I built around my heart
is the reason
I can’t feel the sun.