The convulsive mind never stops asking the questions I don’t want to hear anymore. They are the pregnant thoughts of a lazy day when you just want to enjoy your own company but seldom you feel alone even when there is no one in the room.
It’s another full moon night, when the light seeps in to my bedroom through the French windows falling onto the mirrors of chimes. I see a clear sky with the pale white light, often disturbed with the haze of wandering clouds.
If only the moon, I am romancing with, is the reflection of sun I hate during the sweltering day, has reminded me of you; who used to be the reflection of my lust in night and the love in smoldering day.
As I am filled with the thoughts of beautiful past, the cortex of my intellect debates the prospects of future. The past which is as clear as the bright moon and the future as hazy as the gloom of passing cloud, I recede to my slumber.
It’s another night, when I convince my heart that the withering tree will be a shade for the other who needs it. The utility of its left over green will revive its own stem someday.
I always convince myself with that word.