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After this maddening ‘social distancing’ 

(that's already 

earth-shattering enough)

is over, we shall 

clandestinely trade: 

polka dots for scarred hands, 

universes in return for 

bright white little flower patterns 

against a pitch-black,

silent teardrops morphed into crystal mirrors 

for a yearning harboured before time 

existed in linearity– like a needle 

(that makes no sense) 

when we converse 

in a language that can not 

be deciphered by people 

who read messages crafted on 

the faint whiff of air, or in stolen heartbeats 

but by us, only us, in 

our moment, when you reveal 

moles on your face and neck, 

God knows how many?! Do you 

still remember the day,  

when the oracle of fate promised that it will 

be unsheathed before us, like a dagger 

drawn to weather a storm 

of inexhaustible meaning? What then 

is this quarantine but a manifestation 

of our lingered longing  

for each other from ‘Alast’ when 

God decreed: ‘Shall your ancestors, from 

the same family tree sacrifice harmony 

for a price that 

will outlast death, is it possible!’ And we 

furtively held our hands, your frail fingers 

locked into mine, our webs melting 

into destiny, like an immortal epoch. 

How long must we keep singing to each 

night— of silence, poison coursing in our 

blood, the future awaited exactly like the past 

washed in fading moonlight: a pale yellow— 

before it's prophesied that the sun 

must come blazing down 

on the very last throb of time and we meet?