It was spring, and everyone was gay and merry. People were shedding their clothes and inhibitions, eager to copulate, if not to repopulate the tired planet. The pollen was everywhere. Pollen allergy was as rampant as hormones. People had hay fever. People were fucking, and you weren't. Your hay fever became worse. Your eyes were redder than ever that spring, a fine artistic map of red streets and side-alleys around your irises.

I saw you sitting underneath a tree, all alone, a book on your knees, conversing silently with it. You would stand in the rain if you saw a rainbow, people staring at you, wondering if you were insane. Why waste time on such small things when there were bank accounts and clothes boutiques claiming attention? Spring fling – not for you. Spring pricked you like a bee sting. Your lip curled at the sight of burgundy-drenched roses, your foot descended mercilessly upon a row of scarlet poppies, and your eyes, oh your eyes were ever rouged with crimson, as if you were on the verge of weeping semi-transparent blood. You seemed to suck the red colour from your surroundings, suck it into the shattered bespattered windows of your haemorrhaging raging soul. You cried at the lonely womb-tomb of love and life.

It was spring, and you were relaxing in the bathtub. The red absorbed by your eyes had leaked out of your wrists in harlequin ribbons. Distended streamers in the lazy water, amorphous blossoms thinning out into oscillating trees, scraps of poetry floating about you, Opheliaesque, grotesque. And that is how I learnt, on that spring night, that you had stopped crying for good. The traces of tears were still on your cheeks and the tattoos of pain on and in your wrists. On a warm spring night, when everyone was gay and merry, you left and I arrived to greet you, and we could be gay with each other in ways we hadn't been able to be before.