I know we are all in different places.
Looking at different skylights
The pen in my hand is on the rice paper.
Draw a sketch that doesn't look like a sketch
Is a wandering child.
It was gray, but I stood there.
How can a perfunctory fairy tale be a fairy tale?
It turns out that we have been wandering.
Finally I forgot my direction.
Some words were left unsaid that summer.
It turns out that we have been wandering.
Finally, I couldn't find the direction.
That smile hasn't crossed my eyes yet.
Forgotten in winter.
Label: Poetry