The Shadow-Man's Confession

If ever you've stepped back from a misunderstanding...send me music, and the distance between us will shrink.

Being misunderstood would have been better than never being understood at all.

Love cannot be forced, yet people desire it like beggars at a shrine.

One day, even the closest person vanishes into the crowd of the dead. Then the chest trembles with unbearable pain—that image chases you like a nightmare, relentless, without rest.

Never write anything about me. You'll suffer too, terribly—as much as I do, constantly.

You don't have to say you love me. I'm a person of such fragile sensibilities—I'll shatter at the slightest blow. Better you keep this heavy weapon hidden away where it is.

I hold you with such care, I touch your eyes—more than you could ever imagine. My prayers for you are more perfect than any sound you've ever heard. I haven't told you, and you'll regret it—I don't want the fear of losing me to nest inside you. This alone will cause you terrible pain, unbearable pain!

We will never meet again, I'll make sure of it myself—if you embrace me even once more, I can never forgive myself.

If it's possible, never let our memories fade. Memory is just this—the words I've written about you.

You shouldn't think that I was merely a well-wisher of yours, or a devoted reader, or that I'd simply fallen in love with your voice or your beauty—there's no reason for such thoughts.

I am a nobody—I have no role in your life.

Yet you could never have thrown me away even if you'd wanted to, and you never even tried to hold on—this alone has comforted me. Though I am free, you're trapped in an invisible prism; the day I choose the path of suicide, even if you wish it, you won't be able to break through that prism and escape.

Suicide is no solution, I know you'll say—you'll speak of a thousand beautiful reasons to live, recite indifferent poems in the mad dialogue of love that stirs the storm—but what good is it? I don't want to hear any of it.

You don't know—the fixed boundaries of your laughter, the depth of your gaze, and how many terrible tales of a happy life I've written with the touch of your hand. Don't ask to know; you couldn't bear it.

I want the ambiguity of my love to remain in your eyes, in your understanding, in your limitations—stay well, or all of this will have been in vain.