I sit around a corner
holding a photograph in my hand.
Half way torn picture
remember, next to me you stand.
a
a
Hands were held together
but memories flushed out.
The marks and lines says ,
the paper was crushed to bout.
a
a
The crumpled paper still
couldn’t take away your chime.
You just be so beautiful,
as an aging wine.
a
a
I know the poems you write
are the same I wrote.
Matching my ink-spill
with your paper stroke.
a
a
But do not just hold
the other half of the photograph and and cry.
Because they are the par of the same moment
and are meant to unite .
-Amber (Reyansh) Mishra
