You came in just like the storm,
Attacking my heart and destroy it.
Then left like a summer,
Craving for the warmness of yours.
You knew me well,
Everything that I could remember.
Thing won’t always right,
But the only wrong is you.
I hope the soul goes away,
Near the wishing well,
So you can make a wish,
To be a saint.
Taken from my first collection of poems – December