Pages from a Silent Diary

I am there in all your writing—I can see it, plain as day!
You could choose to write differently if you wanted.
But you don't—deliberately you don't, I know.
Ha ha ha...

I don't want to love you the way everyone else does.
Consider this the language of my love.
Your feelings will live in every word I write.
The longing in your eyes will rest deep in my memory.
Your touch will graze my untouchable body.
The restless whisper of your breath will merge with the wayward currents of my fierce emotion.
...This is how I love you.
Beyond this boundary you will never find me.

Tell me, when did we first meet?

I don't remember such things myself—nor should you be expected to.
Yet every moment spent with you remains vivid within me—as it never should have.
In imagination I spend each day with you, living out our final days.

Would you like to see the feelings written on the pages of months?

September:
Placing your hand in my disheveled hair
you called me close.
In the melancholy breeze there was only you—silent, near.

October:
The journey of feeling began in memory of you.
Even amid the city's busy clamor I found you.

(I've torn out the following pages...)


Today:
I am deeply happy.
Because you have said—you no longer wish to forget me.


November:
Your heart is very troubled—this you let me know before leaving.
So today I feel the fear of losing you a little more keenly.

I was gazing into your eyes
with that deep fear of losing you—
which is really the shadow of my unfinished love.

December:
It felt as though I had lost you completely.
Just then you said—
In December's city... we will meet once more.
[On the last page, invisible ink—only a long sigh...]