Letter
In the very same room
behind the doors
are my longing and your Photo
a pot of flower is my freedom
and sweaty loneliness…
My night confessions have a desert face….
…can’t come back
You
cannot come back to me…
You are the one
who left on a Sunday night in July…
Even if I called hesitant
you would turn your eyes away
to the rose gardens of every color
but crimson…