you are the draft
of my poetries
that I have kept hidden.
you've taught me how to render
all these feelings to be unspoken.
you are the song
by which the octave
of my voice can't reach;
and yet I still try to sing you in secrecy.
you are the art
that my simple mind
can't seem to understand
but it's okay, because I feel you
and that's what gives these emotions
an infinite ampersand.
you are all these,
and yet to me, you are still nothing.
because in this life, that is all we are, and is all what we are ever going to be: nothing.
and I - although it hurts, have learned the hard way on how to accept that.