If someone
had asked me
back then,

my answer
was ready.

The same books.

The same songs.

Being able
to look a long time
at the same sky.

Maybe
being quiet
in the same silence.

Then
I met you.

There was no time
to talk
about books.

We passed
through the songs.

And your silence
was nothing
like mine.

And still,
before any
of this,

something
had shifted
from its place.

When,
I don't know.

Why,
that either.

One night
I asked myself:

Why
you?

I had no doubt.

Only
no answer.

Some questions
shrink
when answered.

Still,
you had asked.

So I tried
to explain.

Like hearing
a bird sing

and being asked
why
it is beautiful.

Whatever I said,

something
went missing
from the song.

In the end
I went quiet.

You could still
hear it.