Within that irreparable time where encounters fall as cloaks on the treetops that remained, in that deaf dark silence was that I saw him first, and he later me – or was it otherwise? Whatever, it’s still the still moment, even if it doesn’t do any more harm or good: the possible contact made whole, that which put us together in another direction than we both had ever desired. I said, “Come with me, let’s build a garden..” He: “No hunger or haste – though this part of the world fascinates me.” I: “Look at me, I am also art.” “Yes, muse, your image is already fixed.” For I chose to be his weak muse.. He laughs, I laugh. We did not give birth, and I also chose never to give birth in my weakness.

Where is he now that I’m telling our short story of happy? His image is also fixed, but the wallpaper faded, its rose tint and the roses in it. But I’m being nostalgic. How fine to have the irreparable time healing everything..


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