Its counterpart being torn apart

the yellow leaf of my book

sat in reclusion.

They had been one for long.

Silently holding each other

Withstanding the shudder of wind,

of reckless shuffle.

Never met.

One didn’t know what depths

the other’s script unfolds.

The staple pin was their horizon.

There was a page between them,

like a glitch. And another. Yet another.

One half got torn

and the other also loosened itself

Of the pin. Of all connections.

Its scrimmage with the pin irritates,

requests to break free.

And so it did.

Leaving a chapter, no two, incomplete…


Note: Image by Patrick Tomasso