Afterwards

Yet still living but not in my life,

loving but not overlap mine,

you fill up me unprecedentedly

with an afterlife serene,

no grief, nor happiness.

The container of you is moving impalpably—

just moving, not living or feeling.

I lurk in the sediment of my deep water,

as a blossom, petals mildly rubbing the air，

likewise a withering, closing and falling tenderly,

to save the original flavor of you

by abandoning my own hollow heart.

And after tired of this, no matter how long,

I know l would like to feel again.

Not you, my love, but through you.

You would become lighter and lighter,

as the real light, with shimmering shadows,

between which l could squeeze and pass.