Whether a funeral or a wedding,
I cannot spar with this.
Totems strewn about listlessly,
as if to mimic a kaleidoscope.

I writhe from the ghost of her touch.
Squirm at the memory of her hands.
Retreat due to her force. Totem one.

A consolidation of both kinds.
Her understanding and familiarity.
The common ground and the calm.
Kind breaths to my lungs. Totems two.

My path a cardioid.
I come close for only a moment.
Her gravity keeps me in orbit,
I see my malignant shadow cast on the darting eyes of those guards. Totem three.

A monsoon.
The sun and stars.
Grassy hills.