I want to gather your darkness in my hands, to cup it like water and drink. I want this in the same way as I want to touch your cheek, it is the same. The way a moth will come to the bedroom window in late September, beating and beating its wings against the cold glass, the way a horse will lower his long head to water, and drink, and pause to lift his head and look, and drink again, taking everything in with the water, everything.

~ Jane Hirschfield