My palm's empty grasp
infected stains these nerves;
these sparks-concerning sense
have gone abandoned of words,
the words wounding theirselves;
the letters spelled out by hurts;
the promises of my flesh
whom betrayal kept first;
rewriting one's hope
but drying was the ink
on surface may reflect
but deeply won't sink;
what visuals are meant
when wordless I sinned;
may crystal, never clear
hence, blurry's what's sent;
sore nothingness per se;
though forgotten, not dared
but revisiting such risk,
if it's the future I'd spare;
yet yearning, I desire
for existing so alive;
right in empty memories
how impossible's my try;
heal this blankness
of no medicine
with pure fondness
for never seen
maybe I've forgotten
maybe only longing
maybe what I've gotten
meant enough my mournings.
