What right do I have? In truth I have none
but do I plead and try to make sense of one,
of course I would.
My bloods boiling, however,
the pumping through my veins seem to turn ice cold.
Grimacing at the sour bitter taste you left in my mouth, I recoil. A piece of me is gone. This harsh pain is induced by none other than my own emotional machoism.
Each monsoon, each heartbeat, each blink of a eye relapses the quiet tide of love I was gifted. An absurd heaviness, a mixture of perfectly timed wrongness.
So I will keep silent even though it feels as if you are the warmth I beg to keep on a winter's night.
You are a fleeting moment in my life,
and somehow I cannot seem to let you go.
