It has been thirteen years since my heart trembled at the spark in her gaze and I experienced love.
It has been twelve years and eleven months since the first romantic words we exchanged over the phone. 
It has been twelve years and ten months since our first date.
It has been twelve years and nine months since she wrote me a keepsake in her beautiful handwriting, quoting Sohrab Sepehri: “The eyes must be washed…”
It has been twelve years and six months since we discovered the taste of café glacé at Gol-e Yakh (on Pirouzi Street) — sweeter and more delightful than ever.
It has been twelve years, five months, eleven days, and three hours since the sweet dream of plucking a juicy kiss from her red lips on the green hills of Sorkheh Hesar.
It has been twelve years, five months, eleven days, two hours, fifty-nine minutes, and fifty-five seconds since the yearning for an unfinished kiss burned my heart, left by the park ranger of Sorkheh Hesar.
It has been twelve years and four months since the day fate pulled me away from Tehran and all that was in it.

Days passed one after another like a flash. Days of failure and ignorance. What was destined for me from the beginning unfolded exactly as it was written. The experiences of this world are endless. Life introduces me to a new taste and experience every day. How fortunate is the one who is constantly renewed with the world, not I, who am forgetful. Yet, among all of this, the concept of the multiplicity of love is a different experience. Repetition and repetition and multiplication, and of course, for those who contemplate, this is a sign, guiding them towards a singular and eternal love.

And now, the wheel of fortune, after twelve years, has seated us facing each other at a café table. Sometimes, between two familiar gazes, what feels mismatched and unrelated is the words. Sometimes, one must remain silent and watch, becoming lost in the continuous beauty and symmetrical lines, and quietly saying, "Blessed is God." Some people are created like mirrors, so you can find yourself within them. Oh, how much I had missed myself. How much I needed to be reminded of the first experience of love. For us, the iron men of the machine age, immersed in smoke, it is necessary to sometimes pull a gem buried beneath layers of ash from the depths of our hearts, dust it off, polish it, watch it with a full heart, think for a while, and then place it back where it belongs.

It has been twenty-four hours since the sweet taste of the last bitter coffee I drank by her side.

1st of September, 2015  Majid Parasttash