Sometimes the time is sort of getting older; over.
Some others is me and my science for loving.
But she could still be happy without me,
eventhough she claims for distanced words.
Is expecting what confuse us, and obstructs our way;
shall we both be part of the nothing we've always been,
or just to feel we've lost things we never had before?
Is this wierd writing climate and the weather of home,
is the life and the humbleness of the falling prose.
Is this dying poem and the rhythm of its voice.
Never an specific date, always what should've been.
...
