A Dew-Covered Morning
Looking at a flower by the roadside whose name I didn't know, I remembered it was the flower that person had liked. The me of that time told no one that fact.
Looking at a flower by the roadside whose name I didn't know, I remembered it was the flower that person had liked. The me of that time told no one that fact.
At the very hour you were looking at that flower, I was watching the roadside trees pass the bus window, already turned red before I'd noticed. Somehow the color was like the stamp on an old postcard.
I walked past where the roadside trees had turned red, all the way to the alley where that flower was blooming. Along the way, the fallen leaves piled on the street had grown noticeably heavier overnight.
I've seen a flower like that too. A flower a passerby gazed at without a word, and it suddenly felt like something from very long ago.
Looking at that flower, the steps of passersby would pause for a moment too. I stood in that spot, waiting for the moment a footstep would stop.
By the time the dew on that petal fell in the wind, I had already left the place.
That time you turned away without seeing the dew fall, I wasn't there either.