All of my body asks each centimeter of syllable
When will you form the sense of my existence?
When will you subjugate the syllable to love for shaping the word?
“Anyhow” is crumbling between our senses
Like an alimentary product without which one can’t be.

The word is a human alimentary product
For the love subjugated soul,
A human product,
A blasting human to beastliness
Like a ruffled typhoon
By a prankish angel,
By an over gifted cherub
With a rainbow!

And so
I want to make you a sign with the lip on the word,
To detach the syllables so I can enter their meaning
With the tongue’s force seeped on the land of holly.
And to love you well-balanced with the entire universe, together.

This is my sob of missing you.