The streets are the same. They lead you in circles. The circles are the same, too, just like those belonging to crying eyes. Eyes that cry in silence, at the foot of a tree in a cemetery where they’ve buried so many of your own. You wipe the tears on the cuff of your jacket. Your bottom lip’s trembling, and although it’s not cold, you shiver as you step over graves covered in weeds as the distant stars sparkle like the teeth of grinning cats. These stories of ours—truth be told—are nothing special. They’ve been told before, and they’ll play out again. And yet as we leave behind the days we have no need for, the streets make way for galaxies, and there, alone and together, we swim as we swam before, in an unending sea of dreams. On nights like this, when the little death has me in its midst and I feel you so intently, you must know that it’s always your name that slips from between my lips. Somehow, as if hearing my call, you reach out your hand as a ballsy cat makes a beeline for you and your curious smile. Licking your fingers like a flame, its tongue serenades you the way I do. We all do. And even on those days when you can’t bear the thought of living not one second more, you must remember that you, and all that you do, are adored.