One counts the good nights
like one counts the good stones
in the river.
Lustrous in the shadows
among the mossy rocks
that make you slip and dance
in the current.
I am turning into sentences,
while my fingers swim in the water.
Let go, they say,
while I let the coolness dampen my fever.
My lovesick loneliness for life.
It is said the last drop of rain
will fall in heaven,
where it can never evaporate,
but will stay in its own perpetual shower,
because angels need tears to fall,
and have none being children of eternal happiness.
So I play in the river
and chase moons on its bottom,
and in my heart
preserve the last word
of the last sentence I’ll ever say,
I love you.