We Feel Like Your Upper Lip

I pack my bag and lock the door. Behind me will always be an aftereffect of typhoon; a merrymaking that only happens here.

This time, the carpet of Plumeria lies there undisturbed. They will be swept away later on. And so will I.

The train is not jam-packed today. I sit down without a care. Somebody sits in front of me.

She is the cover girl. Her lips and eyes are the prominent features of her face.

I am not studying them – just staring. I remember the complex calculus exercises I gaped at.

There is a big gap between her physicality and the thoughts that flash before my eyes.

. . .

We love the breeze tonight.

The moon peers over Acasia trees.

She goes merry-go-round with her white skirt. It blooms like Plumeria.

She blushes as she notices my coy amusement.

I feel her soft hands. Feeble.

A walk in the park.

Endless path.



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