Pillow Talk

I am talking to you
in the middle of the night
about death and light and
stars and deathly things.

You can hardly bear it,
begging me to silence as if
silence would put a pillow
over our heads and ears,

as if silence will buffer us
from mortality. You call me
morose as if I invented death,
as if I haven't learned to see

beauty in black flowers
that open only at night.