Tonight the moon decided

to cut her hair,

so that the stars

may ignore the light for once,

and see its wounds.

My heart wore a paper crown

and begged for oranges.

You were the first art

God shared.

I was the first mistake

God kept.

So we became two rooms

without corners,

where angels will sit

And demons will play.

I remembered you as

a spiral song,

its melodies sharp enough.

How I kissed your silence

like a temple bell:

you didn’t ring,

but I bled anyway.

To erase the emptiness.

So I peeled your absence

like a ripe guava,

sinking teeth into nothing,

and calling it sweetness.

I laid my sorrow at your feet

like jasmine strings on graveyards—

they wither slower

when no one is watching.

You became a verse

I stitched to my shoulder blades,

so when I knelt to pray,

you’d ache along with me.

At midnight,

I swallowed a broken anklet

just to feel your rhythm

in my stomach.

I sat beneath a banyan,

asking the roots how long

a memory can hum

before it forgets the tune.

The crows,

black scribbles in the sky,

offered no reply.

Only feathers.

Only mirrors.

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