I've almost forgotten you,

but you don't suit forgetfulness.

In 1969, we sat in your condemned apartment

on Skjutsargatan,

listening to Chopin played by Vlado Perlemuter

from 1962,

enchanted, spellbound:

Fantasia in F minor, Op. 49;

Tarantella in A-flat minor, Op. 43;

Scherzo No. 2 in B minor, Op. 31;

Barcarolle in F-sharp major, Op. 60;

Berceuse in D-flat major, Op. 57;

12 Etudes, Op. 10: No. 12 in C minor (Revolutionary Etude);

Ballade No. 2 in F major, Op. 38.

I had borrowed the LP from the library,

you had borrowed the stereo for the weekend

from Sven-Erik Wiberg at Expert Torget

under the pretense of being a potential customer.

You were a romantic, the dark brown fringe in your eyes.

Chopin was ruthless in my head.

You were unsteady, half-transparent,

not entirely material; your impermanence constant,

your impression on girls magic,

although never resulting in a real, live relationship

A few years later, in the early seventies,

in another condemned apartment

far away on Repslagaregatan,

where you had been exiled

for unknown reasons by the landlord Brasch at Nyköpingshem,

you painted the walls and ceiling black,

and covered them with author names

in microscopic letters in exquisite script,

staggering through literary history,

your hazelnuts roasted in a cast-iron pan.

In the apartment above in the old two-story house,

Sune Karlsson sat,

playing Ralph Lundsten's Cosmic Love;

a sign with the text "PEST-INFECTED AREA"

pinned to the front door.

Though you are still alive,

you come alive from these lines.

You are like a verse from Rumi.