Missing you makes you grow old, and the years are suddenly too late.
Every time I look up at the bright moon in the mountains on the other side, I think of the Taoist temple on Crescent Street.
In the Taoist temple, the master was wearing a wrinkled Taoist robe, holding a cigarette stick and cursing the fat swallows on the hall beam.
I'm still the kid who knelt down to paint the slate, yelling obscenities at the birds passing by on the eaves of the front yard...