It was late, and too late.
I've walked away, leaving the last message about the complaints that I delivered to you in anger.
I kept thinking about the hundreds of days, which has been passed on with the frozen body of yours, with a chill, which is always given by you through the cold stares.
At times like that, I feel like exiles in both poles of the earth at the same time.
And yesterday, the fire overflowed from my chest. As the eruption of Merapi. Meanwhile, there you become officers seismograph, which monitors and records earthquake vibrations of words.
Perhaps the stars are tired of the rigidity of the earth, the sun also can not wait to burn. I can not accept cold words, that you throw over and over, in every second.
After that, you re-create the aura of mystery. There was a glow of auroras, which remove the wound on my face. There is an abstract of phosphorescent light, which slowly united with my blood, quietly.
I was silent and thoughtful. I started looking for a difference of black and white, devils and angels. Meanwhile, you always choose to be in the gray area.
Where are you? At the end of the dream?
Now, there are only tired in my head, which is filled by rain sketch paper.
It was late at night,
and I don't want to fall asleep without an answer, which reinforced the existence of a black sky.