The midnight coffee beans always remind me of her-
the desk lamp the open laptop the half open window,
the curtains dance softly in wind.
I stare at the cold moon on the white empty bed
and the chair just beside
a room with a resemblance of the one
where Van Gogh stayed and painted in Arles
before one day he killed himself.
I see my half vanished face in darkness,
I laugh to the image and nod my head.
The bleeding youth remembers
the kiss that is still left on the lips.