You called away from home, those serene nights of longing. You wanted to see me, those dead nights, like Michael Furey’s love. How we dreamt, how we gripped each other were tastes for our tongues. My fiction in solitude is when you held every piece of me like hardened throbs. You were succulent in my heart and in my womb. My memory can never delete you, because from the dark hole, you saved me. Your love sufficed. I still love you.