Late at night, here alone, there is no profundity.  There is just the terrible bitterness of absence and the hollow thrum (pang?) of aching for your voice, your hands, your curls. To close my eyes and feel your love returned. A thousand shining suns. I love you. In this space between day and night I am too spent to fight it: I love you.  Echoing in darkness like a moth's furtive wing-beat.  Lost on the wind and tucked away in the edges of night, the love still palpable and real forming in morning like dew on leaves. I was here and I was real, this heart a bleeding pulp exposed.