On Wednesday, at night

I go out of my way

to casually pass by

your body wrapped in a frame.

Blame you, I can't

for your indifference;

I can quite see

the light shining in your eyes

will never warm me.

Yet I lose my daydreams

in all the things I wish I knew

about where you get your ribbons

or the smell of your perfume,

about where you got your melancholic gaze

Or if the pink in your lips has fade.

Yet I dream, instead of nightmares,

of when will I work up the strength

to fill the place air has

and reach your image with my flesh.