He was like a poem to me
and if I'd write something onto his page I'd be afraid to ruin him.
Everything about him was so odd in a way that nothing seemed off about him.
Like perfection had been created somewhere along the lines of possibility
and he didn't even notice it himself.
no on did for a fact.
With a pencil in my hand I tried to write him down,
splurge him all over the paper.
capture him before that moment was gone.
The moment in which he was words and pictures and paintings of sunsets.
Now he's back to himself and I can see him more beautifuly than ever.

-Yenthe De Smedt