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Do you remember the day I told you that I would write poetries about you? I want you to know that I did. And I thought I would write about the butterflies I felt whenever I see the universe in your earthy brown eyes, or the way how your warm hand send shivers on my fingertips, or the future I could see when I'm with you—but I was wrong. All I could write about was how the butterflies you gave turned into storms. How the universe in your eyes turned into a black hole, making me drown in endless darkness and silence. And how you took my sun leaving me nothing, but winter. I can never find myself writing poetries about your good parts because all that you left me were the parts that made me hate loving you.
