圆、完

They say circles have no beginnings and no endings, but they are wrong, because he is both. I was born from could, should breathed first life into my green veins, but he does not remember genesis the way I must. 

He sang to me once, fingers on strings in the dead of night. We were so high up, it was so late, it hadn’t been too late, the sky was the same deep purple as my lipstick. The circular marathon tracks were bathed in the tangerine glow of Chinese street lights, and I cannot remember the song, but he was singing to me. 

The problem with circles is, I never knew if I was running towards or away from him. It does not feel so different after all, for I have been running for years, and I am out of breath, but still I can only ever run around him, sing about him, never to him, never to him. 

I have been running tracks, doing laps, hoping it would take me to utopia. A utopia is an expression of desire defined by its impossibility, it is nowhere. I think I loved him for being my nowhere. It is too late now. 

27/12/18