《翡冷翠：最後的獻祭》

明天是一場不告而別的潮汐。
你隨水而去，
而我願意沉入海床，
成為那塊最不被看見的定石。

別回頭。
別看這滿室的殘骸——
我正把它們一件件點燃，
為你照亮一條
我註定不能踏上的、
濕漉漉的遠路。

那片紅葉，
是我從你影子裡偷來的
最後一點溫度。
我不把它貼近心口——
那太輕了。
我要將它碾碎，
讓紅色進入骨髓，
當我行走，
關節的摩擦聲，
就像你在我體內
輕聲呼喚。

翡冷翠的夜
正緩慢地發酵，
整座城
被釀成一壺深紫色的毒。
沒關係，
我來替你飲下。

我願意讓黑暗
在肺腑中結冰，
只為你經過的月光
保持絕對的清潔。

我不懼永別，
我只怕
你的鞋尖
沾上一點
關於我的灰。

你走吧。
我正像剝一枚橘子
剝開自己的靈魂，
把多餘的顫抖
一層層折進夜色。

我不冷。
我正抱着你留下的那團虛無，
把它搓成火，
煉成金。
這是我所能完成的
最後一件
無用之事。

若你覺得寒，
那是因為
我的體溫
已隔空縫進你的大衣。

別回頭。

 我在這裡，
把自己
活成一座
為你守夜的荒冢。

Fiesole: The Final Offering 

Tomorrow is a tide that leaves without farewell.
You go with the water.

I remain—
willing to sink quietly into the seabed,
an unseen stone holding nothing in place.

Do not turn back.
The room smells faintly of smoke.

I am lighting what remains,
not in rage—
just enough flame
to show you the wet road
I was never meant to walk.

That scarlet leaf—
the last warmth borrowed from your shadow—
I will not press it to my chest.
That would be too kind.

Instead, I grind it slowly,
watch the red stain my fingertips,
as if color alone
could travel deeper.

So that when I move,
when the joints shift in the quiet,
the sound might resemble
your voice—
not calling,
just existing somewhere inside me.

The night in Fiesole thickens.
Windows darken one by one.
The air tastes faintly metallic.

If there is poison in it,
let it be mine.

I will breathe in what lingers.
Let it settle.
Let it harden where it must—
so that whatever moonlight once touched you
remains untouched by me.

I am not afraid of parting.
I only fear
that the tip of your shoe
might carry away
one grain of what I have burned.

Go.

I am peeling my own soul
the way one peels an orange—
careful not to tear too much at once,
folding each loosened thread
into the dark.

I am not cold.
The space you left
fits exactly between my hands.

I rub it slowly
until it grows warm—
not gold,
just warm enough
to survive the night.

This is the last thing
I can finish.

If you feel a chill later,
perhaps it is only this:
some small portion of my heat
threaded, without ceremony,
into the lining of your coat.

Do not look back.

I remain here—
still breathing—
keeping watch
over what has already gone.