He Poem by Furtuna Sheremeti

He was always a pure mystery.
A shapeless shadow.
A shape that left no trace and made no shade.

He was different.

The thought of tomorrow did not preoccupy him much.
Wishes of yesterday made him sweaty during the night but never made him cry.
Dreams of tomorrow never scared him to death.
Because he dreamt a little but rationalized a lot.
Logic destroyed him, killed his shadows and created in his blood the syndrome of rationalism which made him immune towards suffering.

By being like this - most of the time he was quiet.
People never knew him for what he was rather than for what he showed.
And he…well he never showed much.

With everything he showed he surrounded you with the thought of living with an enigma.
A ‘killing enigma' as time might like to call it.
The curiosity for that enigma killed you.
Made you scream, run back and forth, shout, punch him, throw dust in his eyes and run away.
Then it made you come back again within the track of rational thoughts and with only a smile exceed that whole mystery without a single question.

Because he didn't like questions.
Nor did he give the appropriate space to the answers.
All he did were declarations about life, time, loss, fate…but never about love.
Love probably was his Achilles Heel.
Who knows?

I have never quite understood that "pronoun".
Was it a dream? A thought? Imagination? A tricky creation?
I do not know.

All I know is that he is somewhere out there, breathing in a cusp of someone else's dream.
One day he might become an inspiration for a poem written by another pronoun - HER.
He has to be her shelter.
As complicated and impossible as he is …he should find another pronoun.

He will meet HER one day.

Maybe they will meet tomorrow.
They may meet today.
As long as they hadn't already met but haven't recognized each-other.

This is all that matters.