Summer season.

I’ll wither and you’ll see me
writing skeptically under
that yellow lamp. A room so dark
you’ll hardly catch a glimpse
of what I write.

December will remain my favorite month,
letting the snow invade and throb my heart
to the infinite-th beat.
A room too empty to echo every beat.

I’ll wait for you during summer
when my palms’ll smell of
lilies, to fill the space between our
intertwined fingers and your delight
will fill between my diaries.

I was close to disintegration once,
You bought me a drink,
and I can endure many things now.
Life was never the same again.
I walked up next to ephemeral joys,
you held the evening rose,
and I can step on icy snows now,
while you kiss my hidden arrows.

I realize, insomnia was this romantic
way of making the moon a perfect company
until the nights when I laid on the grass
with you. Until I reminisce you in the folded books
and vouched to hold several mid tones.

I’ll wait for you during summer
when the boats drift away from the shore;
when I’ll be mooning you smiling
that smile which made me feel
I knew you so much better

‘The last spoon of dessert will remain mine,
your patience will not catch me crying,
even at the sorriest scenes of puppies.
Or during any funeral.
But when I’ll shed a tear during
that destructive moment of passion,
promise to take it with you to your grave.’

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