When the full moon arrives and wolves are howling, slow jam on the bedside, dancing to the fever, you slide across the river, holding ciroc like a sword, drunk on the cold like a poison. You throw away your sword, saying your crown have you receieved. The music wanes, but your bliss intensifies; I could taste the flames from your chiseled jaw, our lips slurring 'yes' in satisfaction. It feels like entering a hollow cave, but the surrounding is hustling and bustling with the echo of your breath. 

'This crown is interesting', whispers your other breath, dazzingly so. 

'You're a velvet. A good velvet.' Maybe because you've never tasted the other side of the blue; and I am only a decent velvet. 

You don't need wisdom for answers, as your tongue plastering lingering delicacies across my skin; your twisted benevolent is when you hop each side of the canyon and float above the deep sea, to dive fervently. 

'You're a good velvet.'

That's the only thing we remember. 

All the tears you've shed

All the dead brain cells

Sleepless night and contemplative smiles

Some denial and betrayal too, maybe?

Those buds would have grown, wouldn't it?

Thousands spectrum of life. You know? A butterfly in its beautiful color; or a dragonfly in its thin wings. Which one is better? Does it matter that they different?

A little contemplation to every paper fold at the corner. You know? Can a dragonfly be beautiful? Can a butterfly fly with thin wings? Which one is more possible? Does it matter that they seem incompatible?

Then a child can dream. You know? Will I be a beautiful? Will I fly strong without wings?

But now, it's not the questions anymore.

Does it worth it?

Does it not worth it?

Do I deserve it?

Do I not deserve it?

What if I couldn't do it?

What if it'd all go in vain?

I've tried so hard, though

Should this really end like this?

Why? Why should this be like this?

Is it.... even a possibility anymore?

Under yellow shades,

between leaves' fingers

Plethora of laughter;

heavenly dimension

Only drown in elegy of crisis.

Two years, two summers

and the next,

and the next;

it's the same.

It is tiring, they say

When a mattress should be shared by two

And then it's not a nuisance

They say, it's only tolerance

It is tiring, they say

When a paper becomes two,

and three and four,

and countless

And then it's not bugging

They say, it's only understanding

It is tiring, they say

But they smile still;

when sleepless night and endless work run together;

while distinguish is only a word;

yet they need to be extra,

so they can say

we all bleed the same

And your ghost lingers here

In a mist

In a freeze

In a mindless feast

The curve at the corner of your lips

Under the light

Under the dark

Under the meadow

Your haunting voice

Over the heat

Over the breeze

Over the hideous beat

And your ghost still lingers here;

here, inside the botomless pit