I don’t know who you are but I love you. I do, from hand-held cameras and answered questions, from mischief you enroll and friendships you mention. None of your perceivable movements are poetry, and neither are those of mine, for you have blinded me, in the midst of an early summer’s night. I trip over every melodies of chuckle, every tiniest of motions, more and more often. In all the still-copy gazes and the hearts filled with lyrics, there, a dream I imagined lying, pink blending orange.

O, how adolescent affections do me ill. With glitters of grin in your eyes and sways in your songs, you plant me right into shifting images; you equip me with tolerance of faked emotions, and melodramatic causes. How infuriating is every finding of myself foolish in presence of your names. Yet all comedies are sincere and laughter heartfelt, bringing amusement in frowns of bemusement and sigh.

I love you though I fail to know you. I listen to words from elsewhere to nowhere, trace the courses of wind over surface of foreign oceans. My actions are witless yet they form singing and laughter and poetry. My intentions are harmless yet they assassinate times of creativity and importance.

However, the blinding of metaphorical stars—love, the very absurdity, somehow sickly persistent.