I miss her this morning. This particular morning, where I find peace with other floating things in universe. Finding myself between million conversation and gazillion collision, of life and death.

I don’t know how to greet her nor guessing what conversation that we will be having. Years ago, maybe I’d pick up my guitar and burst into Oasis’ She Is Love. But I grew up, I’ve been to some places and met many people. She did too. She ain’t love anymore. I just miss her terribly.

I never wonder if she ever thinks the same way. She won’t. I know every inch of her thoughts and I probably know why she left me. But I don’t hold anything against her, I know her. I’m just hoping she’ll ever find someone to settle her in.

Someday, somewhere.

I miss her this morning. This particular morning where everything collide on the perfect order, creating mere conspiracy of the chance of holding her again. For just a second before she’s being her, and I’d go on with my terrible lying of loneliness.

Maybe I’m just being sentimental. Maybe there’s really something between me and her that is still hiding between those days. Those silent days that suddenly become years, and I don’t know whether I will ever see her again.

I want to see you.

And you’ll know that’d be the last conversation we’ll ever had.

Evil takes force in many faces. Bright colors, beautiful wonders, awesome shapes. They lurk and slip where it fitted. Waiting and calming.

Lie isn’t always the opposite of the truth. And the truth is not always right.

Dance, pretty liar. You know it will always come back to you.

Live awesomely, pretty face. You know somehow, someone will notice your nature.

And pretty liar dances gracefully, laugh carefully. Yet, life is so many things. I believe, you will be alright and one of those night, you’ll learn to forgive yourself. The problem with any other people will always be history. One of those night, they will learn to forgive themselves too.

They die.

First, their dream die. Then their heart die. After a while, their body die. Only few really knows that they already died long before their body buried six feet under.

Don’t die too soon, sparkling lights. You know you’re many things instead of one.

There’s this piano tunes.
Hundred yellow balloons.
Choir singers.
Three clapping judges.
Red and white flashing lights, glowing LED lights, thousands of bright confetti.
Being up high on stages.
With people you wanted to meet.
With rythm you listen everyday, lines you remember correctly.

Then there is magic.
That doesn’t happen everyday.