Waveless left, withers, a wild sapphire dies, can’t reach your skies as the graveyard sighs, grief repeats history, différence, répétition, a wilted death cries. Grow a tsubaki to beget a legacy of regret that can transform an instant into a red undercurrent that searches for a scar that can’t be found near the river of what’s left. I wallow in the tears you left, I left, no one left, to lest we left before a bye could be. Surrendering to jet lag, fortuity tears me apart. Duty calls the strongest, follow what must be done without knowing if what is meant to be discovered would break the begetters traditions, those who told you who to be. Both pulled into different directions, upward, downward, light stains as darkness needs the chandelier to guide us back to the passion that silences and clears up the skies as we fall asleep within a Borealis. Even if no word is said, I’ll lie in a cold stone path, waiting for a gale of warmth to describe me why volcanic lakes meet. If our essence was united by a core heat that stood near the words: find me, why did our ignited felsic path suddenly settle cold? Melded near randomness, willing to find reasons to lie near a tsubaki that knows why the scar in your hand went home, surrendered to a memory, a bonheur genetically instilled as a flowerbed that repeats told stories. A desire for dire esteem is vanity that hasn’t been sorted out, once sorted, close your eyes, be still, I'm here, no one truly left, do we really need more? The final page is unknown. But as the last chapter's brim overfills and spills, can't fully grasp the end's taste even as life decided to sear yes into our ways. Graveyard’s stories spook no more if grief wallows not. If you pinpoint what's the essential in our good will, you'll find me near lightening a chandelier where none should exist, s'il y a besoin de plus de lumière, de la vérité, yeux fermé avant la nuit, your forgetful innocence wishes you blissful rest loved by undying qulliq.