One that I envy most in the world. Your first.
One that you envy most in the world. That I don’t know.
Your first, leaking out slowly through your sleeping face.
One that you brought from there when you came here.
I wanted to cut your first.
What in your face am I envying?
What is what? That I do not know.
It might be something like your mommy’s first milk that made you.
Your first made of such ingredients.

You open the photo album and look at your first. Your first in the picture might think of you. (I) think that (she) thinks. Your loving First is hidden in the picture and your wrist launches a train on the field of a computer keyboard, First, First, First, First, and gropes every compartment of the train. Your first. Where is it hidden? First, shy and hot like vapor made of mommy’s milk that spouted into your body in times long past. First becoming your body in the gush of shaking. In your meeting with the first there are tickles like wild geese passing into the sunset glow. As you are writing a farewell letter to me right now, is your first tenderly smiling? More ardently thinking of you in the picture? Your first dreadful loneliness crouches and hangs in your mommy’s womb. Your first love shared the loneliness. Every first heart of the world contains a knife. Is there anything as heartless as first? First always cuts. First always dies, dies at the very moment when it’s called first. A part of your lips that first cuts and runs away. First. First. First. First. Your two wrists are running alone with no body on the keyboard rail. Your first and you. The thing that a two-headed dog is looking for, wailing on a hazy moonlit night. The thing that you’ve forgotten, even not knowing you forgot it. Is dead. Your first is dead. First is still palpitating at your temples.

Your first. My first. First that can’t be met forever.
Tonight, shall I approach you as if we first met,
and say like this?
I lost first. You, too? If so, what about holding hands and kissing?

And then your first end, and, ant.
Is dead.  D   e    d.  D a  e d
Shall I say like this?