Tonight as I welcome melancholy and sweet discomfort into my room,
with cold wind blowing through that open window,
messing the bedsheets, filling the floor with fine dust:
something wakes in me, makes me reach
for the diary behind my textbooks.
With a steady mind, hands on the table,
I stare at the marshmallow blending into tea.
Moon shines brightest tonight, so do the words in me.
I start writing a fictional tale, as if behind my
head two lovers were caressing each other
softly upon the lonely bedsheets;
I give this short story a happy ending,
the one I never was fortunate enough to have.
At 3.30 am, I finished writing that story and
decided to finish mine too.
Later I heard, the posthumous publication
of my work became a bestseller that year.

- PENNED ● HEART