Someday, if you find this page. Believe me, really everything I write pivots on your figure. On that day, there are two possibilities; I have far left you or I am still festering and trying to heal the wound from you.
Everything I write is anything I can not bear in front of you. Because, look at your eyes I'm mute. Dipelukanmu, my embers froze. To be honest I was embarrassed, admitting that sense might be too. Your figure is not a poet lover that I know, does not know who Sapardi can not even tell which poems and a collection of Sufi words.
I always try to remember your bad, in order to hate you. I always reopen our conversation first, the parting words I still keep in my memories that I'm aware you're no longer in my presence. I have your picture with another woman you now consider your home, so I do not just feel like you are in your life. But it is futile, as if opium and longing is greater than that hatred. I lost the fight against my own ego.
Understand you, the axis of all my races.
If you find this page, your next task is to find me long lost from your universe.
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