I wish to treasure a few things

to myself forever.

Not treasure, but to hold on and live like that.

A few things fail at us and fade into the mountain cries.

Like you did.

While another couple of things glitter

before dying midway,

like the old version of myself did.

A clear-headed calculation of a dead man's living,

and how his poetry flies away like the last bluebird.

There's a thin line between you and impossibility.

And a blood stain between me and my wishes.

Not all burns can heal like that,

not when your wishes are bigger than your brain.