You are an unedited poem, an untouched flower, and a young earthquake waiting until the following morning breathes.
You are assembling the awkwardness from strange faces glued in the shadowy corners.
My friend, try to read in a different storybook and pray for a holy morning that can embrace your heart and elevate your soul, for a princess who can fade between the pages of your novel, who can give you answers for tales you've always cherished and adored.
Try to be a lover again.