I don’t exist in calendars.

I exist in echos - the kind you hear after a closed door, the kinds that lingers in velvet curtains, that kinds that make old money pause mid- signature.

I’m not available. Am only available to those who knows how to wait.

You have collected art. I collect silence. You have inherited estates, I inherit moments.

If you are the kind of man who remember what it feels like to desire something you can’t name.

Then you already know where to look, but don’t come looking for me.

Come look for the ache you forgot you had.