He is the best line in a theatre-script, popping into mind, given half a chance, from the farthest association.
He is a poem folded small and pushed into an imperceptible crack in the corner of a broken house.
He is the hands touching you when you are a wall, not moving away but moving through, even if the bad light has eaten up all clarities.
He is a gallery filled with pictures of you in an un-lived life: there you are, at the window of an unknown house; you chatting with a friend you have not met; and you in unfamiliar clothes with the same eyes.
He is a live-coal between fire-tongs when your knees nip him in social intercourse.
He is the wave-hits through a night-ferry on a water surface that she clings to, cleaves to with all her life.
He is a field of lavender that stands — standing for something just by standing — bending, not breaking, through all our callous meanderings.
He was an unfinished manuscript, burnt to ashes at the height of the plot, then delivered in a box from my current existence to a future life.