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.
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