This is a rain intersection and not crying at all, this is the intersection of me and you waiting to subside, waiting for a new moon that is still faintly vague.
This intersection and the rain never subsided, my longing became the ugly visible sights of cold longing that entered the lungs.
This is the intersection of my place and you are alone, under the hut waiting to die down, from the twilight as ever. This bamboo shack intersection squealed calling wind asthma, me and you sitting together waiting for the new moon.
