Can be found
in the middle of the bridge
that is slowly crumbling
brick by brick
falling down the water
making it ripple
breaking it apart
then becoming whole again.

The meaning of picturesque
can be seen
in the tightness of your hands
wrapped around my wrist
as we run for our lives,
you leading the way.

The definition of picturesque
can be heard
in your laboured breathing,
and in every echo
of our apprehensive
foot
falls.

It gets thicker
seconds by seconds
a pool of concentrated red
flowing freely
from my fingers
down the sink.

Using this blood,
on the wall,
I will write your name
and curse you.

Flocks of birds
flew past overhead
and patched the clouds
which drift ceaselessly

on the interminable stretch
of the ocean and sky
that connects the passages
between you and me.

Today,
The waves rolled
and unrolled
and remembered your name.

But I'm too intoxicated
and every word
seems never enough.

In the corner of my room
stood a mirror
that had witnessed
our countless hideous crimes.

Even now,
I can still smell
your scent
lingering on the bedsheet.

I can still hear
your gasps
sitting in the air
like tiny atoms

composing my flesh
which had grown so
accustomed to the warmth
of your skin.

In front of the mirror
I stood
and the last thing I remember
is the tempting sneer

on the razor's edge.

In the howling wind,
I push my window open
and wait for you.

Paced back and forth
relentlessly and around
in that room
inside my head
without a window
but with shelves
lined with ruins
and old books
beside the solitary bed
amidst the broken wings
of starving dragonflies.

In that place
with a way in
but not a way out

he breathes.