He was like
A Ferris wheel
Always spinning
On the same path
The kind of person
You never meet just once
But once
And then twice
And thrice and so on
We weren't meant
to be lovers
Perhaps we were meant
to be friends
But friends become
lovers
And lovers become
"Just friends"
But "just friends" become strangers
And strangers roam the world
She takes the right road
And he takes the left road
But the world is round
And he is a Ferris wheel
The kind of person
You never meet
Just once

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands