𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜
𝚃𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐,
𝙰𝚜 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎;

𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎,
𝙴𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘-𝚍𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝,
𝙼𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝙰𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚜;

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕,
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𝙰 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎
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𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢.

“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.