It's too early to forget you, it'll always be soon. The second transit is so full of you that only emptiness is an option. My home is based on you, the walls, the windows, the colours. The days and nights that live near me are for your memory. There is no present without your hands, only monotonous beats that cradle melancholy. It is too early to forget you, it will always be soon, your absence debunks me and aligns me, without you until the noise of the sea is another and a complete emptiness collapses me engulfed by the waves.