Against the blurry ray of the yellow sunlight.
My hands float across the pages of your memories.
I write again, a peculiar kind of bravery, not knowing if it holds the depth that I hold – for you, inside my almost trivial heart.
My fingers – as they move, a little graceful and a bit sheepish, wonder if they are sinner or not, to write despite being so unseen.
There's a underlying pain in writing and a very pleasant breeze that brushes against me.
I am no Shakespeare of the seventeenth century, yet you could be the Anne Hathaway written into the fate I have drawn.
I – a woman, unhinged in your love and I yearn to breathe the same air as you–
Until then, let my existence be unnamed.
To the man, the prettiest poem to me, made by the God, the poet of poets.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 12:36 PM UTC
Against the blurry ray of the yellow sunlight.
My hands float across the pages of your memories.
I write again, a peculiar kind of bravery, not knowing if it holds the depth that I hold – for you, inside my almost trivial heart.
My fingers – as they move, a little graceful and a bit sheepish, wonder if they are sinner or not, to write despite being so unseen.
There's a underlying pain in writing and a very pleasant breeze that brushes against me.
I am no Shakespeare of the seventeenth century, yet you could be the Anne Hathaway written into the fate I have drawn.
I – a woman, unhinged in your love and I yearn to breathe the same air as you–
Until then, let my existence be unnamed.
To the man, the prettiest poem to me, made by the God, the poet of poets.