Signs

I wear your signs like a necklace. Traces of you cling to the heart like knives cut skin. It’s a penance perhaps, since holding on is a shot in the dark. I shall wear it, until my skin burns. Poisoned and green, suffice to say. I shall wear it like a bad omen, reminding me

Friend.

My friend was a Pandora box of warmth So careful with words, a box of old world charms Let me confide my deepest fears, gently dried my tears. My friend is a page turned, dog eared. Ink smeared. My musings scribbled in periphery. My friend is an old book. All yellow pages, crinkly.

One

Singularity, the concept of space and time that has never found its feet firmly in science. A continuous spectrum where two related yet distant waves shall converge. And thus, you find abyss. And plunge deeper until your freefall comes to a standstill. By the one who pushed you in the first place. Whose papery smiles