| 一杯浓茶，让午夜显露原形 让枕边不眠的旧书，辗转至末页 陪我重读老式的尾声，体会最后一枚铅字 的滴血，与事前交代的线索、人物，怎样未发生纠葛 一如1989年的冬至，你坐在宽大的阅览桌对面 合拢同一册书的封底，用眼神告诉我 时间也有两只手，左侧的预知痛感 而我们总依赖它的右手，来遮掩，再借助细密的钉子 进行缝合——譬如今宵之残月，适宜补神，水星轮空的天象 分明提醒我，用以筑梦的石头，已所剩不多 曾经一起企待的，你亲手在竹节上，铭记的那个遥远日期 正飞速逼近我们的想象，我甚至无法确认，它是否 已经擦身而过，恰似书中特写的，精心设计之 要害情节，在我每一遍阅读时，反复错过的 他们相遇的缘起，于现实意义中 更令人无策，就像失去判断的碎茶片，忐忑不安 尽管我们终于学会，泰然接受又一个结果 雷同地，自寡淡的杯底现身 Karma A cup of thick tea, in betraying the naked face of midnight helps thumb through my bedside book to its final page, accustoming me once again with the unfashionable ending, so I can sip the last print letter as if a drip of blood, plus its failure for not even attempting an episode in the interest of all plots and persons aforementioned. This nearly replicates one particular wintry day in 1989, while sitting across from a library desk, you closed up the same volume, then eyed me with a hint about how time does offer two hands, its left to foretell pain, but we forever choose to count on the right hand, for covering up before any stitches make amends for --- such as, waning crescent of this moon is said to balance spirit, and the celestial map less Mercury’s presence somberly admonishes me, that stones left for making dreams are rather going fast. An once seemingly remote date that you tagged on purpose, is soaring by our imagination as we speak. But I couldn’t even feel a vague assurance, whether it has narrowly escaped us, precisely as what the book intended for, through a calculated scheme leading to their encounter, which was but repeatedly missed during my each browsing. Whereas in realism, it so frustrates me with the loss of all directional senses, just like tea leaves drifting aimlessly up and down, despite our lastly acquired willingness to admit, whatever consequence shall flare up indistinguishably, from the bleak bottom of the tea cup. |
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