His hands stroked my face and painted it red,
His touch was the only touch I was craving!
But what about the love that was missing?
He sang for me in the daylight and screamed,
Why are you going to places that weren’t mine?
Can you tell him, please that I am an amateur,
Learning everything that comes in the streets.
As I preserve my art more, I worship things that valuable,
No love ever come with me, no love over conquered.
These papers of my book are still searching,
For the blood that I could ink on my pages.
But I did not fell vacant, even after his departure,
From my self knitted home.