Even if you left, you wouldn’t disappear,
the sun is no further than the mandarin left on the table,
and the pen entangled with your name
doesn’t move on its stand.
I’ve become a child again,
I’ve dropped my blindness like a scarf from a window
and seen that it won’t fall,
that the universe doesn’t expand
that there’s no distance between the stars
that the living are no closer than the dead,
that the globe is not round
and that everything exists
at one point: where carbon turns into
diamond, suffering into word.