Suppose that I’m inevitable
Even the veins of my right hand
Void you on the drafted papers.
My dead hair ends.

On my smooth nails
The breeze
Which is not from the sky
Is bending you,
Or the veins of my right hand
Are running out
Of pulse

Rolled along my fingers
Vanished
Not repeated forever
For the second
I’m a half
Since the first

The veins of my neck cross you all

If the warmth of my ten fingers
Were seized on your torn pieces of breath
All would be over
In the dead-end alleys
In oblivion