If any among those crowded flowers in my head could cough up our story,
I'd like to pick the one that could puff right
about the exchange of my first civility with him.
The aligned montage would speed up fast
to the scene where the words are edged
in snow,
the snow formed at a strangely high temperature of affection,
with a blue-white glow like Zeta.
I try to remember which constellation Zeta resides in.
Maybe the one his eyes hold? They're just as beautiful,
but I wouldn't say they're the most beautiful feature of his.
If we pulled out all the weaponized articles from his face to win a battle,
his smile would never fail us.
It can stage an attack on a monastery and turn it into a nightclub.
Even after talking about it thousands of times already,
I can't resist the urge to talk about it for another thousand years.
If someday—that day is nearly impossible—but in case someday I stop talking about it,
know it's just to cover up for my addicted self and subliterate obsession with it.
A character from a novel I don't remember reading says,
"I know boys are not supposed to be beautiful, but he was."
I read it in the present tense,
and the "he" in that line, for me, becomes the person this poem is about.
He is the best thing I have in my life
and the best thing I can desire for.
What else could I possibly wish to have,
if not him in this cycle of death and afterlife,
and birth and rebirth?

.    .    .