I never hate you wound, sorry if the poem I was scribbling through the east wind made me sad, but you know the wound gives me a shade on my side.
We both know, you're the afternoon coffee and I'm sun-kayak. If I no longer depend on your eyes, then tomorrow you will only be dregs.
But I'm still twilight. I am just a wonderful pleasure enhancer for a shameful heart who slalu longs for injuries in every afternoon that I can afford to go. No need to grieve, you say. you stay beautiful without me.
If in tomorrow you get syahdu hearted sitting in the porch, hope you take a look at the afternoon present greet the coffee began to cold.
You're downcast because the night stole your gun. Your ointment has been watered very black, dense creep leaving no color space.
- The sunset in a cup of coffee -
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