About Him

"Back to Nocturne," you said. "I want Chopin."
Fifteen minutes later, the black keys on the piano are screaming.
Night has hurt them.

Maybe that's why you always feel guilty, as if the sadness is part of nescience. Or sentimentality.

But every night, there is a stone path and lights of a city that is not to be remembered. And you, who try to recall it from short love, hasty, will fail.

Where is this city? Who put the body on the side of your body?
What is coming back just to see you
on the remaining dream
in the room's segment.

"Listen," you said again, "What comes in No. 20th?"

At the piano, someone looking outwards and trying to answer, "Maybe the rain. Only rain."

"But there's no rain in C-Sharp Minor," you said.
***



[CZ2001]