By Pranjal K. Singh
This heart with agony in its acumen
Like the ocean with its rough torrents
Doesn't recover the end it demands to find.
Something so analogous
Yet fascinating.
It grapples with prospects of customs
Repeatedly deceiving
Relentlessly shoving itself
Off the cliff.
It yearns to never have met this second.
It's too much, my love
It's too much for you to allow.
Leave it alone
Or it will never be reconstructed.
It's already
Broken.
Empty.