I write stories about love;
while you are there to read them.
I smell hard copies of bondpapers and graphite;
While your eyes were fixed on digital graphics
I’m obsessed on taking pictures;
While you are already contented by them on mind.
One day, Cupid take his role and
Our hidden strings started to connect
No one could explain the things behind this magic;
The love we both feel and its extremities--
The uncertainties despite of each other’s promises
Without our names, who are we?
Are we that Ying and Yang that are meant to be?
Or the typical love stories
Sweet, steamy, and paradise at first;
But bitter, regretting, and painful at the end?