Three shades of leaves are resting on my face, saving me from the warm touch of the sun while I'm basking in its tepidity. Take me, I mumbled. I'm tired. While coldness on my feet tells me I should shake and knock on some texture of wood so that it doesn't come true, the line between wishing I'm no longer here and holding on to the hope of every empty space I inhale, is paper-thin-- thin as a paper slightly saturated by water that sometimes I wish can drown these fears away.

Amidst the dark sky tonight, she remembers the sky so blue-- so sad. Its reflection she sees in the sea is so ugly. She saw a face with Mona Lisa smile that people have seen but have not felt because they don't bother.

She was always a canvass-- plain, waiting for others to color her world. And sometimes when it's dark, she thanks the darkness for she can see the ugly reflection no longer.

It's her time of the day to become a poetry, a masterpiece built from dreams and feelings. It's her time to be felt rather than seen-- to die as Mona Lisa and to live as Kilmer's "Tree."

Because they don't know, they don't know that she doesn't want to be like that. That she wants to do so much more than to just smile.