Within your waiting

: When old memories surface, I want to hold you close.
Even in your indifference, my waiting grows.

: You stay with me, don't you?

: Can I tell you every day?
: What?
: I love you!

: Ha ha...
Even when you don't say it, I still hear those words.

: Listen, you should be angry with me—so why do you still bear with me?
: I don't think about it much.

: Listen, your touch makes me want to burn myself completely.
I tell you this—
Never again give me the chance to come close and touch you.
Still, just once, lie to me—say we'll meet again.

: Why wouldn't I?
: Because I don't want to lose you.
Did you ever truly remember me?

: How could I forget myself?

: Listen.
: Tell me...

: Writing about you, I see no distance,
I don't have to bind myself to any rules.
Your writing is your heart.
Within that writing lives our world—
where you belong only to me.

: But look how different reality is!
In reality, touching you is so difficult—
I don't have that much strength.
You know, I often imagine—
we talk together, like before.
Just thinking this feels good.
I don't know why none of this happens anymore.

: Time runs out,
waiting grows longer,
love grows sharper,
you remain missing,
our feelings never return to emotion's nest.
Familiar rhythms disappear,
I stay silent,
memory erodes.
With a heap of failures, still I think of you, think of myself.

For some reason I want to keep someone else happy—
but who wonders
that I'm not well?

: In your hurry, you look so beautiful.

: How far is far enough?
How far must you go to come close?
I think of calling you but never do,
I want to call you near but can't bring myself to.
When I want to hold your hand—I can't even want it.

I could never tell you
how colorful this life becomes when you're here!