The flowers of the north, how they shine in the nightless night.
Riding your grandfather’s old bicycle through a little village, you and me, eating ice cream on the graveyard. The light on your face, the look of an angel. Me swimming in the bronze red river in the perfect silence, you watching me from the pier. Two poets in the northern night, the perfect love story.
Memories turn into images, images into stories, reality becomes fiction, a narrative, a novel, a poem. Not a lot of you is needed to create an image of you. Not a lot of reality is needed to create a story of a past.
This is an autofiction, an imaginary diary, a study about how the memory becomes a myth. Fleeting moment, I remember You.