This is night life, she speaks. To no one but herself and her virtual pen.
Over cups of milk tea, she drinks drop by drop.
The cool wind that blankets her skin, the sensible pages and the momentary silence in between. There is an odd, yet pleasant chemistry along her Clementine, his ragged old guitar and those papers that ‘sing’.
She sips again. And again. And yearns for the mysteries of the hours between the nightfall and the dawn.
She captures a thought.
The flavor is called nostalgia. It tastes like a tension between joy and tears.
Photo credit: Cacao footage | Stock clips & videos
now, the sky is bluer than blue
now, the grass is greener than green
now, twilight is brighter than bright
now, the night is closer than the day
but still my heart gropes for words
now, to you I have to say
The shadow sits with no one
But the soul of
This empty garden seat
To capture a pause the world can not give
To drop a tear the world can not see
To whisper the stories of his lonesome heart
To no one but this quiet garden seat
The greens and the blues closely overhear
The shadow stands up
Leaving a countless memories
The world may not remember
But this garden seat forgets never
The shadow leaves the fragrance of his memories
Wafting through the nonchalant air