It's three in the morning.

For O.A

How come I never gave nothing to you?
I'm an imbecile I know.
Not trying to dodge that one,
It's how I'd be sometimes.

I couldn't dig roots like a Linden tree.
The seeds of dandelion look to me for guidance.

I couldn't get past my own,
sick sense of humor.
Defense mechanisms.

Sometimes, most times.
I would recall the things I've done to myself.
Letting the ingenuity claw all over my head.

I cheat and I lie to the world but you,
Never to you.

Take half of my heart if you will.
And let us share the rest.

The moon in the air,
Stars hiding behind the lamp posts,
The wind blowing in my ear.
Horns and sirens under the iron canopies.

No one would gaze or look down upon them.
We're fixated on the invisible mirror on horizon.
I know you'd be.

Whether it's a thin line between mountains,
A traveler's beckoning, thousand miles away,
A pigeon that flies where you point.
A tower.
A postcard.
A telephone call, rang and rang.

I know you're reading this out loud.
Like you're making a podcast,
Like, a newsreader in a salon.

Residing far, far away.
In province of small worries.
Free from my lies and ingenuity.

Look up, stop looking at the horizon.
The stars are real.
I am not.

You said you wanted a poem.
This one's yours.