On a snowy evening, the two of us sit downwith steaming doenjang stew between us.You spoon up rice without a word.I tear kimchi with my chopsticks.Snow gathers outside the window,and words gather between us too.
The stir-fried anchovies you liked are too salty.I must have added a little more salt.Without showing anything, you drink water,then fill the glass in front of me.Small gestures like theselie on the table.
We take out an old photo album:your young face, my long skirt.The cafe where we first met is gone;a convenience store stands there now.You point at me in the photoand smile, You were so beautiful then.
I write you a letterand fold it under the pillow.Before you wake in the morning,I take it out again and crumple it.That letter is still there.No one reads it.