The cracks of wrinkled leaves,
The flutter of pages rifled by wind,
The sudden petrichor exuding aromatic air,
My excited voices falling deaf on your ears,
All adored but unwanted.

As if playing the background music in your narrative.

But it stopped, the music.
I stopped.
Back come the naked branches,
The soiled pages,
The humid wind.

Waited for that impulse. That sudden and casual impulse of sorries. But you continued your story.

You fathomed out your own pieces
And shattered mine further.
Unrealising.