Once I met a girl who loves to draw,
She walked with her canvas that nobody saw.
Clocks ticked, her pens are still and kept.
She usually draws with the color of death.
At night, when everybody is at slumber,
Her pen gleamed silver.
Each stroke seemed forever,
Drawing that can’t be erased hereafter.
She didn’t tell a soul, nobody knew.
One night, we stood under the stars,
She rolled up her sleeves showing her art.
She looked down as she’s engulfed by faze.
I tapped her shoulder to meet her gaze.
I loosen my sleeves, moonlight touched my skin.
Like uncurtaining exhibits, our scars gleamed.