At 23, in this crazy age where fuck you equals like you.

Desire surges within my blood.
But the true desire for love has been ruined into cheap pleasure.
I toss and turn at night.
Hearing the echo of my heartbeat on the cold, silent sheets.
We reveal hypocrisy between our expressions.
To speak of "love" yet only desire a night of possession.
Pretending to be a poet but only able to write filthy love poems.
In the maze where desire and loneliness intertwine
Who doesn't long to be touched tenderly by someone?
Who doesn't long to be heard in tears and joy?
But in the end, they all become the unspoken waste in people's hearts after sobering up.
When choosing to trade with a black market dealer named Pleasure
The resonance of the soul has already left me far away.