Inkstone Beneath Porcelain, a Soft Murmur Within

How should I write you,

write of spring passing and autumn arriving, of butterflies dancing and cicadas singing,

write of a glance that lasts a thousand years, of a single second that reaches the heart,

write of meeting too late, of love deep but fate too thin,

I write of every kind of encounter,

yet never see drifting snow blanket the earth again,

yet none compare,

none are like you, and none are not you