He must not know how many times I remembered him slowly and persistently in the time since we parted. Chew his taste in satiety and silence, like a cud. Like a heartbeat, you can't hear it when you're surrounded by people, only stroking his beat when it's desolate and silent. He is a perfect mystery, with no possibility of being solved, but which leads me forward and forward again and again with a flow and a flair. I see the hem of his clothes in every corner, the brows in every reflection, and hear his footsteps in every cool moment when the fever subsides. The world has become a game of hide-and-seek because of him, and I find his outline on the faces of strangers and smell him in the passing crowd. He is smoking and non-smoking, long-haired and short-haired, laughing and non-laughing. He has moles and no moles on his cheeks. His eyes are dark and light. He is a cloud, white, full, light, illuminated by golden light, any shape in the eyes of those who look up, being blown into unknown directions by the wind beyond sight and logic, any fingers that stretch out to hold and block are in vain . Maybe the thunder heard at midnight was the message of his violent death, though it wasn't meant to let you and me know. Or it has long since dissipated or melted in place without leaving any scum, has already accelerated its depravity, has been broken and sown, has been nourished and sprouted. And these, I don't know.
Before meeting him, I was chasing beauty, like aggressive green shoots tending towards the beauty of light. The first time I saw him, I knew he was mortal, with a forgiving smile on his face. He is like a light, but not the shallow and proud light of beauty. As he approached with the light, the light of beauty faded silently like the illuminated night. So I stretched my branches and leaves in his light, endowed with wood and rings, textures, roots and branches.
I once missed him in the spring breeze, surrounded by gentle bird calls.
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