The simple passer

A long time ago that I did not see you. I spend each morning under your window to the closed shutters. I will like to see you accoudée with the iron balcony. Like front. But you are not there, you disappeared. When? I do not know any more. I do not remember the last time where I saw you. The memories mix. I confuse the dates, the months, the years, your place in this clutter of the past which is encumbered, encumbers me. There is nothing any more but this window which attaches me to your past. It is hopelessly closed, sinks, sad with its sculptures which distinguish it from so many others. It resembles to you a little. You were different, particular, therefore I noticed you. But today, I do not find any more true reasons with this fugacious passion. There remains the practice to pass in front of your window each morning. The fidelity of a dog to a Master who gave up it? Not, I am not there. However, sometimes, I feel some so near. Stupid, that resembles to me more. I would be it still more if the shutters were open one morning while passing in front of them. I took the practice to see them closed. A comfort, an ease with my timidity. Yes, I should have approached you, speak to you before you disappear. But, I did not do anything of that. I looked at you by far before lowering the head while passing near to you. It is my nature. It will not change. I know that if one day you return, that you with the balcony, I settle would pass under your window while remaining this simple passer by of which you do not have any memory.