Here we are again, in my darkest night,
I’ve never escaped
I thought the last stretches of a pitch-black pool did not  reach me.

Should I be happy on the crescent carving my brokenness?
you said how beautiful the glimpse of the moonlight is,
they have been a prosaic, silvery dust in dismal,
but now, they are a rare light in the sky.

I adore things that aren’t mine
and so you are,
I held an illusion in my desperation, and it wasn’t the universe's fault for sculpting an embodiment of galaxies and stars, such ethereal like you were living in a myth.

You can be there and begone or just begone
(your mercurial imperative) but this time, I wanted to be left on the traces where you were at.