swishing foot,

twirling in shadow

shaded in by some high rise and

blurred by the gleam of a stall;

light scattered by a still puddle.

a step past another,

an antiparallel twirl,

summoning forth past

through inexorable rifts:

a once endeavored jaunt in dreary rain.

a soaked, red, wooden bench,

paint chipped and wood frayed,

worn apart in threaded lines

under a dripping tree on a dark, cloudy evening;

maple seeds adrift,

damp in the rain,

their silhouettes spiralling

as wind chimes somehow twinkle persistently

in a happenstance harmony with the patter of rain

under a gray blue cloudy sky-

in the streaming grayed blue

a new wrinkle forms between wet threads,

torn apart through droplets of dull sunshine.

now anew in old,

bathed in blinding faded lights;

wrenching nostalgia,

on a field of wind whipped grass,

awash in rosy filtered evening sun;

melancholy of times thought unhad but

somehow known had in some

tangential, parallel form

tripping over nothing,

falling through the bottom of the sheets-

those rapidly undulating, ephemeral, thready sheets-

sinking momentarily, peacefully, perfectly;

ether, water, drained through a dark deep vent,

sucked and siphoned away

back into midnight of some city

world spinning

you, spinning

something natural,

an unfathomable moment,

an altogether opaque moment

feet swish,

head sways and dips

rain and sunshine

phasing through stars and midnight

in fluttering,

sparse,

threadbare sheets,

a lens blowing throughout,

precipitated,

crystallized, even,

within the moment

itself.

under a waning moon

born of midnight sun;

unto the new moon

beside memories of ancient stars

alongside visages new and fusing.

The path to the sky is one lined with white lilies.

The path to the sky is one lined with white lilies,

flowers so pale their countenance recalls something

beyond the life they so vibrantly bloom.

In this ironic transcendence of the binary logic

structuring this world, the lilies,

their paradoxical pristineness

singularly selected,

were rendered the structure of bridges between

this and that beyond,

linking this and those not thereof.

Alongside their images danced the intangible tangibles,

those we knew and know and who we could no longer feel.

Alongside their images burned characters and tales

whose quality would remain unseen, maybe perfectly so.

For many, the lily was a symbol of beauty. For others, it remained one of distinct sadness. For others yet, it remained a reminder of things yet to arrive and things past,

things past,

past,

past, until they finally came

crashing

and reappeared mercilessly and

fluidly.

It was like a spiral,

Just spinning and spinning,

On and into oblivion.

She had one person she could trust.

Only one person in the world and they sat right there-

Face darkened and troubled

And expression painfully sweet.

It was like a reflective surface

Letting her fall away from her chosen gait

And into her own resonance.

And what a painful resonance that was.

And what a painful reality that would echo.

It was like a spiral,

Just spinning and spinning,

On and into oblivion.

She had one person she could trust.

She had one person who understood her wholly-

Every movement and action was decrypted immediately;

Whether they did so themselves

Or she did so in their development was

Irrelevant.

After all, they sat right here, always:

Whole and yet fragmented

In predictable puzzle pieces laid out for her,

Ready to be viewed but never solved.

You could say they had a mutual solace

And that solace was reflected in glass shards

Built of a once pristine, unassuming whole

That they each gathered from around the world

In wounds embedded deep in their bodies.

It was quite ironic;

Without the glass, maybe they’d never see.

But because of it, they had to see,

Or else risk everything.

It was like a spiral,

Just spinning and spinning,

On and into oblivion

Like a crystal chandelier

Of disillusionment and change.

But the strangest part was that it was ok.

This was how it should be-

Painful glass mirroring the miasma outside

Only for fostering solace in their

Deciphering.

This was how it should be-

Lest they lose each other.

It was all she ever wanted.

"Stop saying you love things so much"

"No one could ever love things like that"

"No one loves that much"

"No one feels that much"

"No one-

loves"

I wonder if he really believed that. I wonder if he said that from a place of pain and experience. I wonder if he spoke from a drought that seemed to be recurring in the eyes all around me. I wonder if he said it from a place of fear and distance. I wonder if he said it passingly and in disregard.

Although I really do doubt that last one.

I wonder

but I think I'll choose to believe that saying it was a purposeful choice-

That you love and have loved deeply enough that you know what love is.

That you have loved many things and have been hurt by many- hurt deeply enough that you had to fear the connections you cherished.

Because truly, who can really love it all?

Who can love being betrayed over and over

as the love you 'passingly' give through emotions

and considerations whose weight it hurts to consider-

as that love is rejected time and time again by people

who love just as much as you do-

as that love is rejected by the rejected,

those hurt by yet another time when loves existed

and were dashed.

As your tangible feelings are rejected by those

who seem to hurt others in order to avoid discovering

a new broken passion of their own.

And yet within this consideration comes the unavoidable and ultimately most painful fact of all: somewhere you do love. Otherwise, you wouldn't tell me not to care. You wouldn't feel anything about this- you wouldn't, and you couldn't.

At least, that's what I belive- what I have to believe.

It's what I'll choose to believe.

You love all of it and you've loved all of it.

You've felt that pain and that fear as love crept in

and memories reminded you of pain past and pain pending.

You too must refuse to allow a resurgence of sorrow to be cast upon something new and vibrant- something you love.

At least, that's what I'll choose to believe.

Because no one wants a love to be dashed simply because they let themselves love-

because they opened up to the world and its stupid, cyclical, sadistic whims.

So why love?

Why ever try.

I have to wonder that, even now as I speak, especially now as I unravel.

The thing is though-

I'm quite petty.

I refuse to hate loving because the world can't seem to love back.

I can't convince myself it won't ever love me back, no matter how much I tell myself and am shown time and time again.

I refuse to hate loving because love is illogical in of itself.

I maniacally chant to myself in a mantra of muddled musings-

'Since when was I, the world, or anyone, or anything for that matter-

Since when were they logical?

Since when did that matter?'

"If you love, you don't have to say it"

"You can keep it to yourself"

Maybe. But what if I told you I say it for myself.

What if I need to say it to remind myself that its okay-

that I have to say it, even.

What if I told you that I might not be able to go on

normally without saying it

Because it's what I have chosen to believe-

Chosen to believe in a concrete moment

Out of dreams and out of pure necessity.

Out of things as heavy and airy as emotion

and as transitive and passing as pure logic.

What if I told you that I speak so "vacuously"

Because it's what I have rooted myself upon

In a foolhardily rebellion to try to love-

to try to love and to be shunned and hurt-

all so that I can prove to myself that things can change.

All so that I can prove to myself that I can change.

What if I love in order to learn to love

in a mind that has long forgotten

and yet eternally remembers

some semblance of passion?

What if you were the same?

At the very least, that is what I have decided to believe.

Weissnichtwo is a word that means 'an indefinite, unknown, or imaginary place'.

A long time ago, I used to participate in spelling bees often and sometimes happened to do well (surprise lol). When studying international words, I distinctly remember my sister playing this word (yes, playing, not saying) through an online dictionary and just giving her an utterly blank stare followed by multiple assertions of "are you serious", "what the heck is that", "are you sure that's right" and so on. In order to draw some context as to why I was so lost, let me explain a little. You may be able to tell already, but weissnichtwo is a German word, so 'w' will be pronounced with an English 'v', and 'ch' with an English 'kh'. Transliterated, it would be veissnikhtvo, or if you'd like to intensify that transileration, vais-nikht-voo. Fun, right?

In any case, my initial disdain for the word was replaced by a gentle adoration after I decided to look it up ages after the event. Upon finding the whimsical and relevant definition above, I began to feel intensely amused by the sheer contrast between the sound of the word and its meaning before ultimately loving it for the previously empty niche in my vocabulary that it had fulfilled.

After all, we all have a plethora of weissnichtwos we haunt, each with an intrinsically indefinite scope and deep mystery which ultimately lets us explore for hours on end in some land or another. Moreover, they deserve a name of equal mystique and wonder to characterize them.

Neat, right?

stay away

i scream

while telling myself the screams are why i matter

The familiar phantom approached gently.

It knowingly asked what was wrong.

I said I didn't know-

Lifelessly.

flinching inward

i gasp

the ringing echoing in a crescendo

My eyes were dormant and quiet.

My blinking was slow and lethargic.

The phantom smiled at me

And suddenly dissipated.

frantically scanning

i search

for the mirror's chiming shards

As it phased out of existence

I began to feel warm and yet numb.

The presence asserted itself

And enveloped my limbs

i want to go home

i chant

as i realize i've been there

It asked once more, softly

What was wrong with it all

And I grew tense and defiant

Wondering how I could ever know.

water pooling

i leak

denied a pointless promise

They have begun to flow now

As the phantom coaxes rain to fall

From a long barren sky

Once rife with possibility.

once special

i was

i was once special

It asked what was wrong.

It asked me what I always knew-

A promise of my own purpose-

A promise of its total validity-

never once

i wasn't

i wasn't once special

Those promised ideals, I think to myself,

Pointless in their being,

Were utterly repulsive and hope ridden,

Ultimately setting the stage for virulence.

the ghost returning

i freeze

crying in nostalgic relief

The phantom simply smiled once more

And asked why I'd lie to myself in such a manner.

The phantom weeped and shook my core

And asked why I'd deny myself in such a manner.

The crowd had gathered to celebrate in feast. They drew up close around a roaring and crackling fire. From its vortex burned vivid reds which singed themselves into the night atmosphere in a euphonic hum of cinders. Guiding the mood, stroke by stroke, the village bards beseeched their souls for diversion of emotion into the medium of instrument, propelling the minds of the society at hand into their influence. They strummed vivaciously and ecstatically, propelling the town into an active ease. The aroma of food lazily drifted across the banquet, arousing the excited and joyful villagers into unbridled mirth. They gathered round closer to the fire in a hoard, readying themselves to dance.

Each raised a single hand towards the fire with their elbows bent at right angles-

A twirl and then a sidestep away-

A spin clockwise,

Counterclockwise,

And then three steps around the fire,

Shifting the now concentric circles of structured dancers in unison.

In their ensemble, they all leapt away from the fire, and then dove forward towards it,

Spinning nimbly as their feet landed in its gentle and yet coursing warmth.

As their movements grew more swift, guided constantly by tradition, osmotic knowledge, and the musings of a catalytically born society, the bards took full control of the pace, guiding the village as a whole in a hypnotic trance.

All Stepping in-

Out and forward-

Bounding hands raised-

Floating undauntedly into fire-

Darting away gracefully in glee-

Spinning,

Stepping,

Spiralling in smiles-

Spinning,

Coursing,

And Bounding-

Leaping and Shifting,

Stepping forward,

Backwards,

And finally aside.

The village followed the song, drumbeat by drumbeat, entranced by its undulating sequence of waves and lulls. In their minds sat not a single doubt of their chosen footing, nor of the set of events that brought it into being. They remained stoically joyful, bounding eternally and enchantingly-

Forwards,

Backwards-

And now spiralling,

Finally bounding aside.

The bodies sat around the distant table, listening in on the sounds of a lulling and omnipresent tune. In complement to its thrumming, a chorus of subjugated villagers hummed in joint satisfaction, their steps drumming up animation in an air-bound melody-

A song of simple devising, echoed from inconstant and uninspiring musings until it was propelled into the traditional canon.

A song that could give definition to their shadows and maintain their society in its throes of Death- or was it Birth?

Or Both?

A song to which all could dance and sing to, especially once reinforced by commonality.

A song of unity, and yet a song of division-

One that would ensure divisions remained in just the right balance that their desired unsteady and yet eternal unity could be assured.

Birth and vitality; patriotism and identity; culture and literature; musings and thought; language and home- all of it pointed without fail to the tune and called out to the villagers. To this they responded as they knew how- with humanity, manifested in emotion and improvisation. To this they responded in joint joy and blended mirth-

Spiralling,

Spinning,

Bounding forwards,

Backwards,

And undauntedly into the volatile fire.

They fearlessly saw its grip and danced within it,

Ever aware of their limited action,

And yet liberated by understanding of their limitations.

Uncontrollable,

Untouchable,

Bounding and bounding,

Undauntedly,

Undoubtedly,

And Eternally

Into the fire.

Conceived in confusion,

Born with enlightenment,

Elevation ever increasing,

But yet, remaining-

Distant.

Barely attainable.

Seemingly Unreachable.

The limits of my mind,

Wrought forth from nebulous thought,

Yet you fly above,

And across,

And finally through,

Reaching every alcove of my mind,

Drawing ideas and thoughts,

Even from the deepest crevices of my personality,

Until finally, you reach the clouds.

Cordial and yet taunting,

Flying beautifully close,

But ever so far away,

You twirl and you leap with grace,

Small wisps of your essence floating down to my perch,

My spirit escalates to attain you,

Rising and fluttering.

As fatigue rises and determination falls,

I look upwards,

Your sight a beacon,

A calling for my duty.

Flying beautifully close,

But yet, still, ever so far away,

Large wisps of your essence rushing down to my holding in the sky.

Rising up higher to meet thee,

I leap,

Floating and fluttering,

Bounding off of air,

Finding a place to perch,

While resting on hope.

Inspired by your near presence.

Dancing beautifully close,

And getting closer yet.

My spirit settles upon your swirling cloud,

As you dance with sheer content,

Your image ever warping,

Shifting to become brighter and more substantial,

Until finally, my spirit joins with you.

You reach towards my hand,

Dancing beautifully close.

Finally within my grasp.

You twirl and you leap with grace,

Large flares of your essence amassing on my hands,

I leap once more,

Descending with you,

My feet landing lightly on the land below.

My eyes clearing from your beautiful world.

Torn away and placed on firm ground,

I awake from my mesmerized merriment,

My spirit growing from experience;

Brimming with uncontrolled pride.

Only to realize,

I’ve traveled but one stride.

And yet, the universe has changed.

"Mama, tell me a story before bed,” said the boy earnestly, his eyes and voice expectant, alert, and honey like.

“A story huh?” she responded, her voice steeped in an air of mischief. She grinned and looked at her son with eyes she knew he’d recognize. And she was correct; as always.

He looked at her, and took the hint. She had no intention of telling him a story. At least, not any he was interested in. He began to speak a syllable of protest when she began once more.

“Main tujhe abhi batati hu.”

I’ll tell you right now.

She began that story again, her lyrical sentences interspaced with exasperated interjections from her child.

“Ek tha raja...”

“Ek thi rani...”

“Mama, come on, not this story.”

“Dono margay...”

“Mama, I’m serious!”

“Khatam Kahani!”

She chanted the last line with much satisfaction. She had won- and he wouldn’t ask for a story again tonight.

“Really Mama? Come on, I meant like a real story,” said the child, upset and yet clearly unsurprised.

“Would you like to hear it again?”

“Nevermind. Goodnight.”

He left in defeat and mild dissatisfaction. He knew it would end like this, but he had asked anyway. He had asked anyway just as he always had asked and was diverted just as he had always been diverted.

He wandered up the stairs, his mind echoing the lines of his mother’s ‘favorite’ story in uneven intervals.

‘There once was a king...’

‘There once as a queen...’

His brain chanted the tale idly in an unwelcome fashion. The tune of the lines lingered and lulled his mind, begging for repetition and ultimately being humored by some subconscious and accursed portion of his mind.

‘There once was a king...’

‘There once was a queen...’

He reached the top of the stairs and turned left to go into his room. The blue walls brightly glowed in yellow tones coaxed out of a household of warm light. He flipped the light switch and checked his night light to make sure it was plugged in properly- which it wasn’t. It had slipped out of the socket once again as the bulb drooped forward. He swiftly corrected its angle and marched towards the opposite side of the room. Absentmindedly, he took off his glasses and placed them on the nightstand. Next, lifting one foot over the edge of his bed, he entered the threshold of his blanket and allowed himself to doze.

‘Ek tha raja...’

‘Ek thi rani...’

‘Dono margay....’

It was back, he thought lazily. Surrendering to its unending loop, he simply let go of his senses and let them spiral into his mind’s fancy.

‘Raja aur rani...’

‘Mar jaana aur chale jaana...’

‘A king and a queen...’

‘Dono margay...’

Poor king and queen. He wondered if it was a bad death. He wondered if the queen died first and the king mourned sadly. He wondered if it was the opposite. He wondered if anyone would mourn his death.

‘Dono margay...’

‘Both died...’

But in the end, it’s not like it mattered.

‘Dono margay...’

‘Khatam Kahani’

‘And that’s the end of the story’

The end of every story.

* * * * *

He opened his eyes with a start.

His room was dark; darker than usual.

He scanned the perimeter and realized that his night light had fallen out once more. Soon, he slipped out of his covers to push the bulb back.

Suddenly, he felt a brisk draft. It chilled his feet and inducted a startling and eerie impulse along the edges of his scalp.

He froze in position, his legs taut and his eyes suddenly alert and aware.

The breeze came in unevenly, roughly chopping at his behind while cacophonously chiming an orchestra of shards in dreaded unison.

In response, he acted instinctively, guided by a sense of utter caution and fear. He deliberately inched forward, leaning into his right foot while tentatively and slowly extending his left directly ahead of him. There was no need to look back. That was an unnecessary and excessive movement. Instead, he'd have to move quietly and far far away to assess his being.

As soon as he placed his left foot ahead and began to mirror his method of progression, he heard a deep and sonorous intake of air.

Soon, it began to leak- it flew in streaks. The rate of diffusion increased as its pitch climbed.

It began.

One foot,

the next,

faster,

faster,

then pairs-

a thud,

drumming,

two

three

shouting,

stairs-

two

four

calling out-

'succession'

six

eight

ten

warning-

'kings sevenfold'

twelve

fourteen

sixteen

'phir khatam'

eighteen

crash

* * * * *

He awoke the next morning in bed. The sun shined in unabashedly from behind, lighting his room garishly. He idly turned his head over to the side of his bed. As he rotated his neck, however, he felt a crisp bite freeze his head in place. He gingerly ran his fingers over his neck and along the base of his head to find that a large and rough bump had surfaced.

‘Phir Khatam’

The phrase echoed in his mind.

‘Succession and kings sevenfold’

As the events of the night replayed themselves earnestly in his brain, he felt himself tensen and grow alert.

He carefully lifted himself up to turn his body towards the window, crazedly searching for evidence of the night before.

Any trace of glass was utterly gone. His window, however, was still broken; overtop the jagged hole was a crude piece of cardboard sealed with duct tape.

He wasn’t dreaming; it was still here. He had evidence- his neck, his head, the window- all of it.

He bolted downstairs and found his mother and father in their room downstairs. They sat on opposite sides of the bed, distant and tense.

“Mama, my window is broken!”

His mother simply looked at him, forlorn. She slowly turned her head to her husband and gave him a constant gaze. In response, he sighed and avoided eye contact. He turned towards his son,

“The, uh, neighbors” he began, “were really hammering it down last night”. He paused, as if contemplating how to phrase it. “Someone was probably out of it; they must’ve thrown something at our window and broke it”.

His mother sighed and looked at her son.

“Yeah... Don’t worry about it. We’ll fix it,” she assured gently. After a moment, she began to look troubled. “Are you ok? You like something must’ve happened”.

He simply looked at her and said nothing. He quickly nodded a no and turned to go upstairs.

The boy began to lose trust in his parents.

No, that wasn’t it.

He simply didn’t know how to tell them what he had seen the other night. Yes, it was far too radical to consider. It had to have been a nightmare.

But still, he couldn’t help but look to the signs of its truth- the bump, the broken window. All of it made it unavoidably clear that what he had seen was likely true.

‘Succession sevenfold’

‘Khatam’

The voice; the wind. What did succession mean? What did it have to do with kings? What would end?

* * * * *

The night began to creep in once more. It was almost time for bed.

The boy earnestly approached his mother once again and asked for a story. Today she obliged and read him The Little Prince. He loved that story. He always wished he could give his mom a rose just like the prince’s friend. But he was always afraid he just wasn’t being practical. Not only that, but what if the rose became too proud to love. He knew it happened. It simply wasn’t worth it.

As his mother read the story, the boy dozed off and drifted to sleep.

He dreamed of watching a play with his mother. In the play, a silly king walked around town and returned home. Once there, he trifled with his things and decided to list all things in his domain. As he wrote and wrote, he grew old and old, all until he died.

The funniest part was that a new king just took his place, and so did a new queen. Then they started doing the exact same thing.

Such silly people.

* * * * *

The next day his father wasn’t home. His mother was sad. She hid it, but he knew. Maybe they knew it was coming too.

The end.

‘Khatam’

The day dragged on into night and the boy went to bed once more. He asked his mother for a story once again.

She just smiled and said, “Maybe tomorrow”. However, she must’ve seen his disappointment. In a moment, she drew up a smile and teased. “Ok, fine. I have a story”

And so the story was replayed.

‘Ek tha raja, Ek thi rani. Dono margay, Khatam Kahani!’

The boy grinned along with his mother this time. The story itself wasn’t important. He just had to have a story told. He knew his mom had to as well.

He quickly went to bed and had the same dream again. In his sleep, he had the same dream. That made two kings.

‘Succession sevenfold’

Twice confirmed.

* * * * *

Over the course of the next four days, time plodded on in isolation. If everything must end, the boy must make the most of his life. And so, he spent as much time as possible with his mother.

Every night he was told the same story; every night they laughed and hugged each other dearly. It had become their inside joke- their thing.

He wished his father would stop preparing for the end and come home too. Lately he had been out on errands, supplying and preparing things. But if it was all going to end, it should end peacefully and idly. He wished his father understood that.

It was ok though.

After falling asleep each day, he had the same dream over and over. A third king, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, and then a seventh, all lost in succession towards an inexorable end.

‘Khatam’

It would come and it would pass, as everything would.

* * * * *

The boy went downstairs to see his mother and father. Today, both were in their room, ready and prepared. His father had all of his things packed; clothes, tech, and books- the entire ensemble.

The boy gingerly slipped a copy of his favorite book into his father’s book case.

From afar, his mother watched him sadly, smiling at her son.

The U-haul was parked outside, almost completely packed. They led his dad up to the door to say farewell.

“Papa, aap kab aaoge?”

He looked towards his son and smiled vaguely. He gave him a loose hug and packed the last of his things into the truck.

“I’ll pay for the window. It’ll be in the next check” he said in a monotone.

His mother didn’t respond.

Soon, the vehicle was barreling off into the distance, unseeable within a minute and never to be seen again. It was gone.

After a moment, the boy smiled to his mom and went up to his room. As he walked up the steps, his mind spiralled in the abyss it had dwelled in for the past week-

‘Khatam Kahani’

The story’s end, met after the death of seven kings.

As soon as he crosses the threshold of his room, the boy cried and cried, waiting for the end to completely set in.

But the end had only begun. And that was the worst of it.

Nearby, his mother hovered outside his door, unsure of how to enter. Even if every story must end, it never made it any less painful.

Even if their end had begun, she hoped his didn’t have to.

She walked into his room and hugged her son tightly. The two cried for a long time: the boy vehemently and the mother softly.

She gently caressed his hair and told him a story with a sad smile, hoping to calm him down. She began and ended as she always had:

‘Ek tha raja,’

‘Ek thi rani’

‘Dono margay…’

‘Khatam Kahani.’

He was listless and adrift.

She was alert and alarmed.

He felt, despite his oblivion, that his eyes shone a different color.

Indeed; she felt that her being as a whole was wrong.

Maybe it was the sky that told him so.

Although it was definitely the Earth.

Ah yes- he knew this was true; the sky held no such qualms. It was the dirt. After all...

She was eternally wrong; she felt this within herself- or was it inexorably from the outside-

from the externally intangible that was internally palpable. That must be it- he knew.

And she strove to understand this.

But in the end,

she would often give up.

All that mattered was that he did not

fit.

It was an issue of his disposition.

In the end, she did not

belong.

She never had in the slightest; furthermore, she knew

that this feeling was far from unique.

It was pent up inside many to varying levels, always made to be an issue of

categorization. Before him was an endless array of assumptions,

laden as though canon by the soil and its inhabitants.

Over time, the tension built up slowly.

Proportionally, so did the isolation,

almost as though he had been seated across a vast crevasse.

But in the end, wasn't it her fault?

If only it could someday change.

If only the fault would finally

break

* * * * *

Such was his fervent hope.

It was a dream of freedom from expectation-

of ascension beyond disapproval-

and happiness with herself

regardless of misalignment with the fault line due to ‘faults’ his own.

However, the moment the classification was flung across the line

he was alone once more. Soon, the issue was not that the

he was now a she,

or that the she was a he.

It was that the standards had changed again.

Both were swapped through tectonic upheaval of the Earth below-

all until the divisions shattered.

All until the lines once drawn in blood

on the dry and thirsty dirt

were broken then redrawn-

drawn and redrawn

and drawn again.

That was all she could see

and all he would ever see:

lines

and lines

upon lines

upon lines and lines

etched away deep into the fault.

All this lasted until he dreamed of another break

from her endless battle.

All this lasted until he dreamed of a return

to the first image, shunned in fear

of those who had drawn the lines.

What she dreamed of was not a break from a name,

but a break from the standards he was held to,

deep into the infinite future.

What he dreamed of was not a release from a title,

but unison with the bliss of being herself,

all without his character pre outlined.

As her heart began to mourn,

his cried out in frustration.

She called for yet another break

whilst he joined in sorrow

as the fault simply reversed once more,

tied into the Earth itself.