You dive, like oil on water, skimming.

My love, for you, it clings— down drowning.


Leave to you to understand it.

And no, I don’t connect to this ‘poem’, poem?

I was writing this for a friend’s musical composition but he found that it didn’t fit!

Ah well, hoho.

I think I can write poems (again), they’ll sound way better than the ones I wrote about a year ago, but I’m definitely not writing poems that bear my heart or soul or you know, something melodramatic.

If I were to, it equates to prying open a chest to find nothing.


Love is redundant.

But I do not mean that we shouldn’t do redundant things.