There are surely stars that are curling inward to die;

But I shall not know which.

There are surely insects in my walls that are eating each other;

But I do not see it.

Outside,
Beneath my window,

Surely some lovers have parted each other, never to touch again;

But I do not know them.

And,
When,

I sever, I eat, I curl inward

To die as all things do,

I sense the rapture and sadness of others, knowing I do these things,

Without their knowing.

It is raining.