with parallel lines across her forearm
she smiled at the constellations,

he used to speak with soft tones,
every line which slipped through his dry lips
incoherent pieces meant to be left
separated.

burnt paper and crumpled promises,
they weren’t parallel lines
with the fortune of an interchange.

yet they both learnt lessons,
severing memories from empty souls;
trembling backs barely in contact,
her choice of route the converse of his.

love is often said to be the antithesis of selfishness-
and she could only wonder if
it was once humane
to break one’s wings.

(j.y.t)