It is over.
i. Uneasiness is a by product of the debris
of garbage paved like cracks on my face,
deepening with worries and spinning time
spinning, spinning like a crystal die waiting
for the right hammer to annihilate it to a
million different unblinking eyes waiting to
get to their destinations, with impatience, in
rush hour traffic. I trace my uneasiness with
a rippling realization that
It is over.
ii. I bet you my millions of unblinking eyes
that you wake up on the floor with your
messy bed completely drunk from last night’s
unanswered phone calls and schizophrenic
memories of adrenaline-fueled young mistakes
and with a few rough rubs of your cheeks harvesting
wildflower confessions of a love sadly expired to
a pitiful series of loves humiliated, you conclude that
It is over.
Do change not; it ended so we could begin, even if
the scars on our skin display our transparent ambiguity.
It is over, poetically described with codes you must deduce.