I knew when the sun went through your body. Tangled veins all over your yellowish bones. Your flesh were a three colored ribbon; blue, green, and purple. You seemed a lot like a garden where you'd used to hide some of your bruises. You always told me that there was no treasure box shimmering like your sweat and blood drips but oh how poor, how poor of you that you've never had seen the glimmer on your tender eyes that was a sleeping, sound blue star. Now you know why I didn't believe it when you said you were born from the womb of a tree. You lied as much as you coughed. I didn't like it. But the syllables your tongue had made were tender and the intangible comfort I'd felt made me forgot to complain. I knew it when you said you were a karst and I was the river you kept so dearly like the teddy bear you wouldn't let anyone to touch. I never had seen if you had a teddy bear but only for that one, I believed you. I still do.

On Wednesdays we used to burn books together. You knew I loved the way they became ashes so sometimes you'd let me too. But how would I forgive you, oh you? On that one Thursday I wished it were me who'd turned into the pages. And I still do oh I still do.