We aren’t shards of the same mirror, reflecting a single, shared reality.
More like prisms, fractured and vibrant, bending the light into kaleidoscopic clarity.
A collision, a chaotic interplay of hues, unfamiliar colors bleeding into something new.
A universe born from the clash, love, a breathtaking, ever-shifting view.

para Isa

Sand abrades exposed flesh, sweat a sheen under the relentless sun.

Canine shadows dart, ribs like forgotten Greek architecture beneath matted fur.

A tangled knot of warmth against the encroaching chill.

The ocean’s rasp, a relentless monologue.

Time sifts through cracked palms, each grain a castaway of memory.

The silhouette, a crooked question mark against the bruised twilight sky.

Another revolution of the sun. Another turn of the screw.