At the hour of taking leave

 
If I ever seem tiresome to you, forget me quickly.
I love you without any reason at all.
That I think of you many times each day—this too without reason.


To want to understand people is to embrace deep torment,
so I had settled on understanding only my work as what it means to be alive.


After meeting you, my places of longing grew from one to two.
The new place was born in my heart, not my mind; so it lies beyond my control.


I have certain private moments of melancholy.
Of the few companions that come with being alive,
I have chosen sorrow.
Sorrow keeps me alive, pushes me forward.
You didn't know this. Perhaps that's why you try to frighten me.


After thinking many times that I won't think of you anymore,
I've come to understand there's really nothing I can do about it.


I can feel you, love you, but cannot have you near.
This causes me no pain. That you remain—this much is consolation.


Let me tell you why I've written so much.
Today you truly made my heart heavy.
I will never write anything to you again.
If we ever meet while walking our separate paths
I won't speak to you.
I hope you'll be well, stay healthy.


A tenderness toward you has taken root in me—this is wonderful.
I will try to remember you. Stay well.


I'm leaving. I don't want my mood
to sink again at your small words, even at
your simple yeses and nos. Stay healthy.


Whether we ever meet or not,
whether we speak or not,
know that I'm drawn to you.


I've sometimes spoken harshly to you.
This is true, I know it too. But I spoke that way
not to hurt you, perhaps because I couldn't
understand what you were saying. Please, don't misunderstand me.


I'm going. Before I ever return here again
I'll remember that you can wound me.
Only if I have the strength to bear all that
will I return, otherwise not. Let us speak no more.


Always take care of yourself, and be very well.
I feel you through what you create.