“Flightless bird, American mouth..." She sang as she sways her curvy body in the middle of an empty room. I saw how she smiles at the thought of a man dancing along with her, I wish that was me.

The long hallways were as easy to stroll by—as I love feeling the paintings nailed on the wall, I once discerned the lovely voice I always want in my system. She was singing her favorite song again; "I was a quick wet boy diving too deep for coins..." I remember how it became my lullaby every time I could not fall asleep and I lay there, reminiscing every words, every note she is hitting, I remember how I can compare her to a painting. Where an art is a compliment by being in its unique state and at the same time, the bitterness of being complicated.

She was a painting, I could never outgrow of. She was a flightless bird, I am a side character who longs for her, who gazes at her swaying her curvy body back and forth—her lips tainted like grey clouds forming another rain. Her skin as rough as my palm sketching another art—her feet closer than the ground, neighboring with the coldness of the white marble tiles; I stood there longing for her. I stood there, raised my hand and waved through her direction.

Even when she could not see, she was my prized possession I will ne'er have.

She stopped and peaked at the door where I no longer stand and I breathe a sigh of relief—this time, it will never hurt to leave. I smiled, she will never know.

Her sweet dance in the empty room is what ruled in my head, she will never be gone out of my head.

...and now, I bleed for being lost without her. My flightless bird.