I mull over ways to reach you again: Dismember yesterday, hang it up and let it float outside your building like a spider? Or, on the wings of one butterfly stamp after another, deliver a parcel of longing and despair to your door? Your smooth, tightly closed metallic walls make every single crawling insect trying to climb up slip and fall off the building

So I wait for the fluttering of butterfly wings in the Southern Hemisphere to cause a typhoon in your summer mid-day dream, to allow the butterfly shadows secretly issued by sorrow to flap and strike the doors and windows of your heart, and let a question mark, a comma, in the incompletely digested poem stir up your memory like a tiny screw, pop the top of the old perfume bottle sitting on your nightstand, so that you can hear anew the chirping insects, barking dogs, singing clowns without a nose that we once heard together and are stored inside, so that you can smell anew the perspiration and scented mud that we once rolled on: at the bottom of a deep lake a summer night's conversation that cannot be stopped.

Now our hearts are as far apart as the two poles of the globe, although my eyes, like a thumbtack, still fix on the longitude and latitude of where you are on the map. I can only write a poem, a sad poem, to make the butterflies in the Southern Hemisphere fight for food and make them flutter ten thousand wings so as to cause a typhoon in the summer mid-day dream of you, behind metallic walls in a tall building near the Tropic of Cancer.