In chills― your
face swims, In dark
fireflies soar to fly
into your eyes.

Missing them― the clouds,
when moon hurts.
A racoon jumps under
my window, when I brood.

The requiem revives
the culture of tears in an epic.
My book will never end.

Take this trail
of blood thoughts. What
was the kinship of words?

Can you read from
the stains of an empty
cup of tea? My life had been
like that.

Like moth-eaten I
hold my pen. When do I
stop writing?