This world alone is not enough.I need someone to make my latté old and classy over the time;Just as the wine does as it ages.I marvellously pout, exhaling air on the brim, to make my coffee lukewarm.Stealing glimpse of those eyes.Carefully those fingers wipe the cream cornering on my lips.The clock ticks, with those sips.Residues of coffee beans lie on the bed of the cup, as I reach to the Epilogue uninterrupted.
Your cologne still lingers in the room.Your suit cuffs are still in the drawer,as I open it , tear makes it way.These walls murmur in my ears,in your hoarse voice.Your diary, describing me in every way,as rose fossils hurriedly fall down.I was in love with a writer,who made me immortalon his pages by witheringaway himself.
The weight of misfortune has stooped my shouldersBut I don’t intend to stop for a good while yet;I afflict my own destinyAnd don’t want anyone to mourn for my fate.I’ve made peace with God on my lossesAnd agreed with him on the epitaphsThat should be written about my senseless wars.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
VIWe lack, yet cannot fix upon the lack:Not this, nor that; yet somewhat, certainly.We see the things we do not yearn to seeAround us: and what see we glancing back?Lost hopes that leave our hearts upon the rack,Hopes that were never ours yet seem’d to be,For which we steer’d on life’s salt stormy seaBraving the sunstroke and the frozen pack.If thus to look behind is all in vain,And all in vain to look to left or right,Why face we not our future once again,Launching with hardier hearts across the main,Straining dim eyes to catch the invisible sight,And strong to bear ourselves in patient pain?IX