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It was noon when the picture was taken, I cannot

place it exactly,

but the picture must have existed. Me, and you, the

central encasement of the horizon, the background a

faded bluish blur,

which you handed the film over the counter, feverishly

demanding the man behind to blow it A4 and crumble

them cleanly into

jagged jigsaw pieces. You put the mangled heap into

a hard cardboard box and handed them to me, saying that

we will piece

them whole when we had nothing left in the burning summer.

___

Afraid of heights as you were, we ran up towards

the mountain in

the pouring rain, steam gushing from our little gaps and soles

like a freight train to Neverland. I teased and taunted at

your trepidations.

“Hurry up! Little Mouse! Stop clinging on the rails,

Small One!” You needed My hand as you reached and

grappled, to guide a way

across the suspended bridge, while a hundred feet below, the

unforgiving rapids rushed by. I would tell you, how we fitted

our feelings in the words

we knew, and I would tell you, what they meant when the

mandrakes keeled. You would stare perplexed in narcoleptic

yonder, exclaimed that I

thought too much, and laughed my thoughts away.

Time flew,

the nameless dressed in peacocks told that he would walk the gulfs

and move mountains

in your Name, just to have a flitting dabble with you. I took a

stroll across the street corner, the carousal spins joyful

children amidst the

protests occurring side by side. Pictures are taken, where

dreams are not yet shattered. Mindless white noise arises,

where the mock

police surrounds the area in case something messy offers itself.

It is the unbearably slow changes from movement

to non-movement

which all of us fail to perceive. And it happened that

slowly, only a time apart could we see the changes occuring.

Sister, do you still

remember the time when you’ve told me of your dream,

that we were the only ones wading deep beneath the ocean

floor, fishes drawn in

pastel rainbows and wondrous hues, While we trudged along,

with none, but us two? The past haunts like the time of tides. Now,

the scattered jigsaw slides

in my Pandora like ebbing waves carrying sand into dusk.

The colour from the pieces has already faded, or was it always in

black and white? The companion

in my mortality is the wisp of smoke curling into thin air.