If I am a shard of glass, then she
is not the one who broke it, but
a slivered crack like me,
and together,
we are reduced to sand,
melting where we stand.
And if there is a furious beat,
like hearts marching,
erratic tempos tripping
down a cobblestone street,
there under the constant thrum-hum
I, looking at her, become
infinitesimal – a particle
caught staring at the stars,
having forgotten who we are,
and she
is just as lost in me.