Five,
stop waiting for an opening,
there is no way to know him
than to walk into his skin
and become everything he has become.
i never have heard of people dying from door knocks.
Four,
he carries a pass-permit of
every sentences that has travelled
through his experiences. it’s a way he can only
make people see the little bird inside of him.
Three,
his mother has only one picture in her room,
and her nights are prayers plaited with halos; it’s how
she keeps record of people who poke her dreams.
Two,
his father does not like the portrait
of himself on the parlour wall; he leaves it there still
just for visitors who can’t pronounce his name.
One,
i shared a drink with him
and noticed a few things:
a: he looks up at the sky and falls asleep.
b: his pains are not compasses into an empty room.
c: there’re no fireflies trapped in a bottle under his bones.