With a note in my pocket I kept.
I sit at this table for two in a corner.
Get my pen out of my clipped page turner.
And stare blankly outside by a window long been swept.
Wondering how things shed like an autumn.
Our age lasts for a day without sweet disposition.
Love weakens because of a water falls from the face.
And I can’t picture it how tragedy lurks these days.
Short for Christmas, It’s a typical Thursday eve
The busy streets meet always new faces.
But I’ve been spending this time on a rusty halo.
Where things float down in uncontrollable motion,
I think this was meant to be suffered for intention.
Through this table napkin, I see myself writing your name.
Taking down my sorrows, regrets, and longing.
For a simple glance way back before forgetting
I turned my glare across the hall with fate.
Just like I turned the time when we sneak out late
We walked under a tree with illuminating sparkles.
Talked about past and even future while my palm you tickle.
I swear, that time nothing was not enchanting at all.
‘cause everything was at its best fairy tale.
But now, it seems the whole scenes covered by despair.
Longing for you to turn back everything in repair
And I’m still here in this teashop; it’s 8 in the evening
I wouldn’t trade my crumpled scratch for anything.
Only tears, a cup of tea and cookies will be delighted.
A soothing relief that embraces my solemnity of my past,
But everything seems at its down, blue, and trash.
I’m in this corner thinking it through.
Knocking at your door again will settle us two.
But now, let me leave this note above this table for two.
