Those butterflies I felt,
that fluttered to the zenith of  dangerous firmaments,

they too die.

When my thoughts drift towards a certain young man.
I begin to admire his solid structure.
Tracing over every edge, stamping his image on the back of my eye lids.

Dreaming, dreaming of a soft, tender embrace.
Feeling, feeling like that will never take place.
For this young man has found solace in solitude.

As I visit him, filled with history that cannot be thrown away.
In his museum, he is there, at the centre, a piece of art.
But still only a statue...refusing to move.
Refusing to yield a warm touch.

Who is truly foolish?

...I can only expect so much from a statue.

As I visit him, filled with history that cannot be thrown away.
In his museum, he is there, at the centre, a piece of art.
But still only a statue...refusing to move.
Refusing to yield a warm touch.


But who is truly foolish?

I have figured it out.

Somehow, you are able to encapsulate love into a tangible gift that you give to me endlessly.

Seemingly I cannot not like you.
But you smell like a night filled with debauchery.
The type of smell that I loathe.
You smell like my father.

And I know what's going to happen,
I'm going to love you.
And you too will leave me, right?