New

When I see you,
you say two things.

That I must rest.

And that I must 
cut myself free
of old ties that 
keep me restless.

It is the curve of you,
cradling empty sky,
that tells me: rest.

And your borrowed light,
drawing a sharp line 
through the night,
like a knife that cuts,
but doesn’t exist,
that tells of my escape.