I was lying in a hammock with a pen and a notebook in hands because I wanted to write you a poetry. But I took my time staring above me, at the green leaves of the molave tree that were rustling in the faint winterish wind. The certain slants of sunlight that were passing through its gaps gently warmth my skin. There was a pair of robins gliding and hovering from tree to tree, and others that were conspicuous except the sound of their sweet little chirps.

This serenade of the nature, along with the thoughts of you, brought me to sleep. I fell into the claws of sleep before I could even write a word for your poetry. But there in my dream, I was with you. There, I saw and heard and felt the words of the poetry for you. So when I woke up smiling, I decided to scribble them onto the paper.

But I felt weak. My hands were weak, and even holding the pen proved to be a tedious task. As I dangled in the border between consciousness and subconsciousness, I could practically feel the words sporadically leaving my head, escaping into the void, one by one, until there’s nothing left for the poetry of you. I knew then that you are not for me, and never will you ever be.

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