My skin changed its colours 3 times a day because you radiated;

I was happened to be too close. 

You contributed to the process of making me.

You might be here until my organs say let's give up. 

(I would be grateful because I suppose my mind would give up long before.)

You can also give up seeing me.

You might be there everyday until you want to set sail.

You might plan on leaving me next Friday;

or we might never see each other again

because I left early and I didn't even know we wouldn't have a chance to finish our discussion about glutens. 

An island is a dot, floated in a middle of waves.

Then the probability gave us a present and says 'meet'.

So we've met. 

Particles of you arrived.

They decided to hide in my urge to clean the sink.

It's hidden in my conviction to write.

It's hidden in the tip of my eyebrows. 

I even forgot how to spell your name already.

But don't worry.

I will dream about you drawing me a rainbow with wasabi in the next 30 years.