I loved you very deeply.
There are no other words for it
No poetic enigma that can conceal the strength of my weakness for you
Or a literary device to protect me from your memory.
You told me that the egg yolk of the sun
The birth of a year
The populated festivals of our city
Anything can be poetry.
I had learnt to rhyme, even before you I think,
It doesn't surprise me now
That I still thought it was you who taught me to write.
Where are you now?
The egg yolk is up and shining through my window 
Are you still in bed?
I hope you still write poems, rhymed and descriptive,
And teach your friends
The discoveries you make.
I should curse you to love so deeply
That you can't euphemize it
Or hold back
Instead I keep my heart open like always
Like a doorhinge, cracked.