Moving on.

My heart sings songs that no one

could write.

You nor her could understand

the honeysuckle sweetness

of what my heart cries for.

My heart is fragile,

full of laughter and expectations.

Under Autumn leaves she no

longer sings for you,

but for I instead.

The grief my heart endures has

become tameable.

I am nothing but tainted leftovers.

You made my heart stronger.

Not for you but, for the next, new season

of my fluent, quiet life.

I am no longer taciturn.

My heart cries honey and shouts

fields of jasmines.

But, not for you but for I instead.