The air is mist. All I know the air is mist. The rest gathered as a pack of illusion. Crowds of people passed by, the traffic light keep changing color in rhyme controlling the moves of every feet synch with conscious mind. Yes, they are awake. All of them, but us. We are deep asleep within teenage wonder. Foolish wrapped in raging emotions. Whilst flaws are seem to notice, standing at its peace gracefully showing off their trace. Painting smudge of desperation, into a whole idea of being unwanted. Loud bass and drum rolls has fail to obey their duty to distract an ideal infection due to a screenplay or else. You are not here. But I am. I am here with what I see. With what I touch. With what I feel. Only the idea of you that stays. That plane, oh that bloody plane about to take you away from home. From me. The state of nothingness seem desirable within the absence of merry. You, it's always been you. Along with irony, I surrender. Because all I want to hear is one simple phrase, something exactly sounds like,
"Come here."
Then I'll see you in New York.
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