You see, I never thought of you like today:
I now believe in all the words you have written inside these books of solitude.
still considering the meaning of existence, above all.
The central Library unwrapped in the dawn.
My brain clock wise.
I count the seconds of my passing thinking of you, without.
These steps I follow are yours, inside the corpse of the sun,
Your silhouette, kisses the light as it falters.
You write as you walk, in every move, in every gesture, about life.
I do read your books often now, I do
I never intended to
Become this practitioner of love.