I was but what you'd brush 
with your palm, what your leaning 
brow would hunch to in evening's 
raven-black hush. 

I was but what your gaze 
in that dark could distinguish: 
a dim shape to begin with, 
later - features, a face. 

It was you, on my right, 
on my left, with your heated 
sighs, who molded my helix 
whispering at my side. 

It was you by that black 
window's trembling tulle pattern 
who laid in my raw cavern 
a voice calling you back. 

I was practically blind. 
You, appearing, then hiding, 
gave me my sight and heightened 
it. Thus some leave behind 

a trace. Thus they make worlds. 
Thus, having done so, at random 
wastefully they abandon 
their work to its whirls. 

Thus, prey to speeds 
of light, heat, cold, or darkness, 
a sphere in space without markers 
spins and spins.