tripping off email messages of fondness

I remember that time we talked in the courtyard between the building in which we worked and the other one where we stalked the halls searching for a place where I might say something—where I might find the movement and keep going on. He sat on a bench. Staring off into nothing. The concreteness of it all. I stood smoking cigarettes and rocking like a steady tick—the way a swing does for long moments after the rider has since been drawn away by some other distraction. It was during those days when my friends sat for long hours listening to me tell the same story with different words. When they daily and nightly loved me in spite of an inability to recognize my own face.

And I told that sometimes I longed to be an Octavio Paz poem.
And he said it’s a brave thing to want to be a poem.

[. . .]