These poems written of my love for you, I’ve been sending them for fifteen years straight, and still there’s no reply.
The first year I was reckless, I wrote each and every day without fail, I licked stamps without insistence, sending you my heart’s spit.
The second year I was still reckless, my house setting ablaze still wouldn’t even catch my attention, in fact my clothes caught fire from below, and by the time I had noticed, only the collar was left.
In the third year, I calmed down, I’d already reached the limits of literature, I publicized my journal, and my posts maxed out.
In the fourth year, I wrote for a magazine, and I branched out into social issues, I decided to release a poem compilation, and I made fun of salary men.
By the fifth year, I was a pro poet, I captivated women from 20 to 34, but since I was so earnest, I saw other girls as inexperienced wastes of time.
By the sixth year, my body was ruined, I’d already passed 2,000 poems, not a bone had been broken, not an organ had been damaged.
In the seventh year, I was in perfect form, so today I’ll compare you to something, perhaps you’re like extreme ironing, perhaps you’re like a compound inner product space.
Even in the eighth year, I didn’t change, so today I’ll compare you to something, perhaps you’re like winning every match in 16 tournaments, perhaps you’re like an AMPA glutamine receptor.
On the ninth year, I had an accident, apparently I suffered quite a blow to the head, and though I’d forgotten my own name, I remembered only that I loved you.
Through the tenth year, through the eleventh year, my memories didn’t return, and yet, I loved you, all I could want was your reply.
Through the twelfth year, through the thirteenth year, my memories didn’t return, but I still loved you, that was all I had.
Even by the fourteenth year, they still hadn’t come back, every day was frightening and uneasy, I just wanted a glimpse at you, I just wanted a word with you.
In the fifteenth year, my memories returned, I remembered everything and burst into tears, because I remembered that you died fifteen years ago.
These poems written of my love for you, if they kept piling up, would they someday reach you?
In your former room, every day they stacked upward, I couldn’t see you anymore, and I kept loving you, but I thought we’d meet again, and you disappeared again.
These poems written of my love for you, I’ve been sending them for 16 years straight, and still there’s no reply.