By Sabina Shoeb
Time having turned into before and after
Only one present.
The still inkblot in the air, held steadily.
Every moment losing to its predecessor, same date with misplaced zeroes.
Happiness had called for words of thanks
Days of falling asleep with laughing lips and expectant eyes
See only the crinkles of a smile
Not the etched wrinkles
So lost is the way of those paired
Paired I say, for timeless is their effort to name the synchronicity
Dual in essence
Each whole treads a path beyond the alcove behind the waterfall
Onto an untouched riverbank, hand in hand.
Virgin to mystified eyes, stepping into trodden steps
All claiming the water so clear and sky so blue, to their sight.
And there is truth.
Mystification seemingly unknown to all
Behind swaying veils who push past the swatches
Unknown only to innocent
Defined only in conscious
As written as blinks, goose bumps, beats
Every gaze, word, and rising pulse
Seen, heard, and felt; past tense
Clichés matter not.
Masochism is wrong.
Masochism is wrong?
Pain need not be of raw skin
Heated eyelids, shut tight
Aware of sensation
Wanting, needing to make amends
Tormentor you are, remorse
Behooved constriction, shrunken
Silly wordplay reserved for longing
Frenzied is the mind of the halved.