Why?
Sitting by my desk, I asked.
Intoxicated by unwillingness,
there was bitter down my cold body.
On the desk, there was a petal,
there was no telling where it came from.

My silence is also my grief,
Forgive me my discretion.

It fails me to talk with you,
To mention your transgression.

It fails me to restore you
To where I once adored you.

It deems me guilty,
guilty,
without a choice,
without a voice.