The tree is an entire world tonight. Its boundaries are constant when looked from afar, but the closer one gets, the more the shivering instability that separates it from this world. Winds speak differently in there and out here. They fall like waters on a rock, that gushing sound. They bristle like a cornered animal. They move in and out of worlds, but everything is yet still. Boundaries merge beyond the crest and a building has bark. Clouds are smoky layers caught in starlight, outed in their pretence to be the sky. Pale imitations of the deep black. Where my skin ends and the window pane at my back begins is unknown. I'm the gateway for world winds when all doors are closed. He sleeps, but in shadows and maybe in peace. The bed is a different world, where he lies. Minutes ago, I was part of it. Now, of another. Soon, I will go back again because I like his world and mine together. Building and bark. Skin and window. Clouds and sky. Tree and wind. Me and him. Everything quivers a little all the time. Was there ever a time anything didn't? Look close enough and everything moves. Lights, eyes, leaves, fingers. When the sun is in the sky, the boundaries are harshly clear. Crossing them is difficult. Erasing them is impossible. In the night, though, everything flows into the other gently, angles are smoothed, formlessness reigns. If I stretch my hand out of this window sill, the winds are in between my fingers and part of my hair. I am wind. I am the branch on the tree, I'm a mark on a building. I could be everything that morning has taken from me. The smell of ripe bananas, the wood of a window sill, the wind through a tree, and a part of his world. Sleep is a drug to numb the loss. I sleep so I'm not reminded of what I can be. Till morning paints me in sharper light, and I fence myself in, I will be with my back to the window pane and I will give parts of myself to every world. Scatter, petals, on this wind and leave no trace.