They asked me for drugs, I gave them letter, story, beautiful souls. And I told them about drawing, writing, mistaking and desires. I was a liar. I couldn’t tell them about you, I couldn’t show them your picture, your smile, the flower and the valley we saw in one secret dreamland.

      For you’re the rare one to me. You may say the same to me but you don’t really need to, as I knew it millions of years ago, when we were stars and first met in the sky.

      Writing to you, is a habit, is my life, is now. Just in the collection of poems and in your beautiful eyes, I should like to bury something precious. Then when we were old and lines on our face more marked, we could sit in a cafe somewhere together and read the poems page by page and see how a young poet once paid visit to your heart in spring.

      We could come back and dig it up and remember THAT I ought to take good care of you always, as how I have been seeing to the wild orange garden of my heart.

      And remember THAT it was your romantic ethos,

      We celebrate, and we imagine.

      Imagine how beautifully sad it is when summer meets the heart of spring, and the scorching sunshine meets rains and tears from a star I’ve left for long. Imagine I was there and you’re here with me. Imagine that love between you and me is like a sigh, I yearn for your sighing here by my side… Sigh…