It had not stopped,
and I know it never will.
The bleeding suspended steel with a bad clearance excuse,
with your worn out cotton cloth pants dragging down to that repetitive street.
For I breath hard, I breath harder,
but not you in the air nor the florist smell of rose garden.
Tea house doesn’t hold ceremonies for empty souls,
with deceitful present blinds us both.
I don’t see them as before,
and I don’t see myself as before any more.
The spinning winded world with those sweet smiling wounds,
with my creamy shortcut wet hoodie folding in the roaring rapids.
For you stand far, you stand farther,
but not me in the sight nor my deepest reminiscence.
When the pink straw intrudes through the plastic seal and my hands invade your lens,
with silent diamonds cut through my face.