In the coffee cup cradled in my palm

No tears, no clouds—at that window…
No nature in the sun to burn bodies with gentle heat,
what's the point of guarding it day after day?

Sadness is only like sips confined in a fistful of coffee cup.

The quiet conversations of dear memories, or how deep the reach of your laughter was in the distance—
by then my love for you had settled in, stubborn.

My touch isn't what's clear to you, your heart lost its consent—
will I be able to accept this rejection?