“I am the paper between two colliding rocks but I won’t tear so easily.”

You’ll wrinkle and crease but you’ll stay whole, with exposed lines of weaknesses.

“They linger with the permanence of tattoos and no one knows how to iron them out.”

So this piece of paper stays lodged in between, neither crushed nor shredded, inked with dirt and scabbed with hurt.

my mother always found souvenirs meaningless
two years back, you brought
something back from China for me;
I've never been to China

someday I might swing by
on moondrops with a nightingale's cry
and find out which pack of 10s this pen came from

and suddenly one day
I realise that all I have left of this person
is this souvenir from two years ago

You are submerged in the water. Eyes lifted, slightly. Sun rays penetrate. Lips part, slightly.Gas bubbles escape. Fingers twitch, slightly. Hair strands sway.

Feeling the warmth, you start to imagine how the surface would look reflecting the beams off. You wish for your arms to reach where the shine is, but leaden bodies refuse the command. Noticing the currents manifested by the swirling wisps of your curls, your eyes widen in realisation.

Air.

You need air.

You're sure you can hold out for another second, but after that, you'd have reached your limit. Somehow, this second lasts forever.

In this second, in this still, in this silence, you hear. Unnoticeable at first, but turns instantaneously loud, then unbearable, and finally it goes wild. The dull thudding of your heart on a rampage. Help.

Where do I seek help? How do I call out to someone else when I am so, terribly alone? What can convey the idea that I am struggling to breathe, that I am surrounded but isolated at the same time, that I sense something imminent and unavoidable approaching; something I fear and yet embrace to face.

Opening your mouth wider in an attempt to scream, gas bubbles escape even more. They float and disappear and disrupt the tranquil surface above you. Stop, no, come back.

And forever ends.

the rain falls
shoes' wet, feet's cold.
pitter patter pours
from the windows
instead of into

mourns in the form of lilac fields and ginger gardens;
emanating spectacular sights, exuding savorous scents,
witness true hearts blooming, singing for the silent and the dead

winds beckon;
to submission straight stalks succumb
gales graze over but vanish, stilling staled souls
as if they have never been touched before

the lyrics of a forgotten rhapsody
hummed to a tuneless melody
blades of grass dance dolefully
to the mezzo's melancholy

hearts are dark matter
buried deep into the core
imprisoned in cages
bleeding forevermore

The mind of a broken heart rests not.