He carried arctic gazes in his eyes- the color of the awakening skies. Pale and perfect, and always undisturbed in their own intricate world. I never asked him, but I always knew he was a poet.
His stride gave little notion as to his destination, he was an ice sculpture moving across the sunlight. Where he was going was not to be compared to the beauty in which he always arrived.
He had no remorse for loss, because he believed nothing was ever lost, that everyone and everything he ever loved was within him. He believed things were meant to be momentary, and that people went to ethereal places- that he would see them again.
His lips moved soundlessly when he was awake, but emitted his desires in the night when he slept. His trust must have belonged to dreams, and not reality, for whatever lies behind those closed jewels must be worlds more beautiful than what we see.
He was more alive in a moment than any of us are in a lifetime.
It was in all of these ways that I knew he was a poet.