Soon air started to chase me out
my pass time with the moon,
I’d come out holding steaming cup of tea
and it’d keep tea’s breath
while making mine sting, to breathe hurt
like that, I started to only watch the night
from my fireplace eye without the stars lullaby;
watching where my thoughts find rest…

Should I tell you how many pages
my fireplaces have eaten?
because my hand isn’t like time,
misplaces serenity that sky
houses when stars are out and twinkles?
Should I tell you?