Whoever compared love to warmth was lying.
It is cold.
It is the fog at top of the trees softly whispering your name.
It is the frost on window that reminds me how easily things can break.
For me, love has always been like sleepwalking.
I never remember how I get there
But there are always footprints behind me
That appears to be mine.
Somehow I just ends up there.
Whoever compared love to home was lying.
It is strange.
It is a prison with four walls, a door but no windows.
It is a rainbow but of shades in blue.
For me, love has always been like an empty box.
So at night when I miss love so much
I think about the man on the moon
and how he cope up with the loneliness.
But somehow even the moon reminds me of you.