maybe we’re from different worlds
or from different time loops
and our souls just got lost
into being born in this cosmos.

i dreamt of you clad in warlike armor.
perhaps you were meant to be born
in a dystopian realm
where mynah birds are aliens
and you never saw
what the sky really looks like
in the absence of explosions.

because that is what you are,
your skin reeks of angst
your stare is a carbine
ready to point shoot
i would shoot their mouths
until they splash red, you said.

and i thought of me growing up
not knowing the smell of longing
because how wonderful would that be?
to live in a city devoid
of longing for peace
to remain young, walking
through an endless hallway of trees
without the eyes of scavengers
observing our bodies
forming an entity.

maybe we’re not meant to be
and maybe we are
but not here
where we hide like the cicadas
on grass awaiting the moonbeams
to blanket the whole town
of living saints who tell tales
about angels who burn cities
stained with people of our kind, loving.