Whenever I start to write something,
you emerge as if mocking me that I can't write without you, 
as if begging me to write something for you first,
as if reminding me of the awkward dinner party, for which
we sat face to face, 
for which I racked my mind to find something to say, 
succeeding only in embarrassing myself and annoying you.
I wish I were Salman Rushdie or Maya Angelou, 
who can talk, have fun, laugh with spirit.
However I'm more like Somerset Maugham or George Orwell,
who lack social grace and quick eloquence.
Why do I still remember you?
I don't see rose of any color.
I don't see any ocean "gang dry", any rock "melt" with the sun,
any "sand of life" run.
I don't see "the depth and breadth and height".
I see my own inexplicable memory of you
that will never go away.

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