Dear Warm Kind Eyes,
The longing nostalgia, yet factually foreign yearning, both hugs and tears me at the same time,
As reality is as lonely as uncertainty’s gravity.
It sucks me into an isolation — a pair of black holes whose ending follows only upon the epilogue of my death.

But how can/do I let go, when I still hope for its fruition?
But this hope, o isolated seawall, am I simply hearing the wistful echoes of my heart?
Fear and anger plague me — for the little girl whom wishes to stay.

As I whisper, my narrative echoes into a song,
But one whose chorus can only be arranged upon meeting a threshold of narrative completion.
Though I try to comprehend, how can I arrange the peaks whilst the story still continues?

Will this story ever end? Or has it yet to begin?