Sadness-

Just let this little thought meld into your mind; this labyrinth and zig-zags,
"S" in this word only, it's a half-infinity. It won't last quite as forever as you think.

Some infinities are smaller than infinities.

I'll like to think that we are all glass figures, people, whatever.
We are fragile, delicate, malleable when heated, at times we can be coolly transparent.
But the undeniable truth that we always come back to is that we can all
break.
Under pressure- the sort that splinters pieces of wide-eyed innocence and hope, the kind of disappointment so pale, you can see it in their skin- it results into little fissures of weaknesses spidering out into ugly cross-roads. Which I think we will inevitably walk on.
And suddenly, with those gaping cracks,
we are no longer quite so impervious to
the bad or the good.
Frankly, as sickeningly cliche this may sound, it is universally accepted that it is the very inside that will start to bleed into those crossroads.
So, yeah, it is the inside that counts.
And I wish I could have learnt that without cutting my hands
red and raw
on these broken shards of glass.

There is an inexplicable magic
- sweet & short; the bitten back lips sort of pain-
something imbued with time.

For it survived through the silent deafening tick-rocks.
Little silvers and wisps of yellowed newspaper ink tailor itself in your cold coat pockets.

Oh yes,
dust-motes, blood & teardrops lay between its spaces.
But, it is still there.
Right between your seemingly fragile fingertips.

You're here now, make it count.

The way your voice sounded 357 pages ago,
a sweet cut across on wintry darkness; flitting out were all the stars.

The little husky notes living in the
b r e a t h i n g s p a c e s
of
your lungs and mouth to lips are like bookmarks.

I never quite lost the page I stopped at.
I dare not read on.