If there is a room inside of me
with your name written in it
the language it is written in is a lovely one.

One of figs and birds
and beaches the color of butter.
The walls blue, and at least one of them
made from nothing but windows.
Another has shelves of speckled stones.
The light pours across the floors
and the trees outside
burn with song.

— Anis Mojgani, “Untitled” (via chatoyance)