I've written a lot of love books except mine. And I don't know if I ever would.
Yesterday felt like a dream. I never knew I would wake to this reality.
Her smile of oxyopia made me quirk in mysterious logic.
Throwing me into a balloon of disco-lights in space.
Stars, moon, neon lights to hold on to.
Blowing me thrills of oxymoron and ambiguity.
Life is itself is just an irony. So is love, it's all fallacy.
Making us dream up rythms and poems in absurdity.
We want to be together but in a short time, the light of love would fade out in dualism.
Leaving us with tears of ashes and memories of enigma, heartbroken.