Whatever we do from moving on and forgetting — in every night we wasted for a cream-colored paper aching for the metaphors we had in mind — we always end up looking down to someone in a white-tucked glee on a wooden chair by two in the afternoon.
Whatever we do, we always have that rush every time he smiles or the abruptness of his turning head as it startles our sleeping heart — as which we can’t even explain why it has to be this painful this time.
Whatever we do, we can’t help but think for someone. Thinking that maybe once in their lives —
they must have thought of us, too.