Sometimes,
I want to tell you about the night cold,
and my cigarette lit on my right hand,
and a poem that describes everything
I see the day I pass,
and the sad song,
and dim light on my eyes,
and your eyes will see me from the screen on your phone,
and that melody of a night owl,
and the moon,
and the wind,
and the last breath your fragrance clothes on my jacket,
and your lips hanging out my rose,
I gave you.