Unmoored of Cherished

The countless endings, from hell to hail,

As spring grows into the cold of a knife.

Mist of the night, a single stolen lie,

I fault the beat of cells that never die.

Unmoored from the beloved who carries my cry, Eyes on the floating disaster of a scattered rooms. The love she grooms

Into that purple-designed room.

She never smokes the tickets of weekends

That we fall into on endless loopends.

She blocked the mirror of the sky,

Yet the love we had never die.

– HRIDIK KAPINJAL