My poem warms my nights like a silver moon,
like fireflies on the trees; fantasy is what I longed,
constructed feelings, somehow are unexplained,
like bubbles of morning air, touch my skins.

It's not how I intertwine my heart all of the sudden,
but how our language diverged; beautifully spoken,
and when my mind erects, so slow, for real
that's when I ******* words suitable for her.