When the telephone line screams
the headline of your love
tying a line of vow to someone else,
do not scream poetry lines
over the skyline;
do not write suicidal lines
that traces across your veins
and arteries that crosses your heart;
do not draw the linear bottle of *****
and spill your heart out;
go ride the train and count the miles
of parallel lines that made the tracks;
go down to the farthest station that sells
ice cream with rainbow lines,
with flavors running across the horizons,
trying to mimic the spectrum lines
of a cathedral stained glass;
draw out the silver line
of a spoon and dive across
the rainbow blitz of the ice cream;
and forget that person with each
fireworks of flavors exploding
inside your mouth;
cross out that person’s name,
like undesirable clichéd line of poetry,
let the rainbow ice cream scoop
spill over the last line;
and make that concave line
turn into a crescent moon line
that reaches ear to ear—
like train tracks reaching
both the far end stations—