There are faded roses sandwiched between the pages of Oscar Wilde's book. I have long been that stupid nightingale. I know that the rose has an owner, but I still press my heart on the thorn and let the blood feed my delusions.
Her warmth remained on my fingertips, like a red-hot needle. Even though I knew it was the poisonous wine of betrayal, I still drank it. Even though Wilde has written the ending, I still want to carry the last remaining petals of the rose into the abyss together.
Intention: None