By Sabina Shoeb

Guest Writer


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.