It feels strange to be calling you by your real name.
Mispronounced with a thick, foreign accent,
It hangs over the both of us, a woollen fabric, rough but enchanting, retaining our nervous breaths.
It feels strange to find a glass slipper, to chase my Cinderella long after she left, the death knoll doesn’t seem that ominous at the final hour.
I stare at the clock, ticking away biding its time to an infernal explosion, a bare whisper holding back hidden desires: almost here.
Endings, need not be dismal always, partings translate not into heartbreaks
We are elastic bands, let them pull us apart,
When we collide, won’t it be strange?
The hour, it is here, almost
Not quite free, but my mind is already slipping
Fizzing at the edges, humming and sizzling
The sounds of ever-fading whims.