Photo by Ajay Murthy

All on us, all on us

You spell my name wrong, indecisive yet jumble-party of what once a perfect syllable

All on us, all on us, …

The space between your pupils dilate, wider, and mixed into a pool of forlorn

You push me out, you draw me in

You go around, and I stay within

On the rocks we once stood, now crumble into cry and wry

There is something beautiful

I could not mention

if the war set ablaze

and all burn but one I choose

it would be you, you, and you.

But we know it would be implausible

the chain that severed

stole all the words we used to fill each vocabulary with

from the artic sky

to the deep trench

a gallop of emotion

we all silently agree to lock into the depth of forbidden chest.

Will you ever fall in love again after us?

You loudly whisper, the howl of the moon echoed trembly on the manless street

intersection where we decide which path we should part

and I swerve,

but you stay.

Will you?

Photo by Greg Jenneau

Your Honoured, the plea was harsh, a borderline tragic yet would be the cue of standing ouvation to the audience:

slightly ripped photocard, nebula up above, and the shadows down the ground.

I demand he is guilty, Your Honoured, for such the crime that stole the colors and laughters and every demand I could ask in the long past but today it is all vanished with the impenetrable distance.

Will you?

The book has met its end

Readers applaud, with the salt of angst and piles of conclusion they make to enunciate the plot armor

Your Honoured, I plea guilty,

For I could not answer the abiding question

and lost between the explanation I could hardly restrain.