Behind the palm trees
In the vast, rust coloured sky
Sets the orange sun

Could be the words of comfort
Could be the language of dislike
Could be the voice of envy
"the world is beautiful not kind"

There you are knocking at my heart,
I don't know when it started
Maybe centuries or was it yesterday?
Unknowingly I was being coloured by you.
I am unaware of my first wish but now my time flows through you.

There you are knocking at my heart,
I am already afraid of the cold days without you.
Are you a dream? Maybe a mirage?
Because like a lie I am clinging to you.

There's this book in my hands,
it's cold, even the ending is sad.
I am not insane to smile or read to a sad story.
But strangely, I keep opening you up.

I keep reading it page by page,
like I would touch the moon.
In between the visible lines
like there's a secret prayer just for me.

Now I am weeping willow, but I can't close it.
Even though this story is like the thousand others,
But I secretly keep wishing to
the broken stars and dried wishing well,
Maybe this one will end differently.