When timorous katydids pontificate
with the moon after a tedious day
I spiral into my inner calamities, scratching
the wounds that I preserved secretly.
Your solemn vows that corroded within
your citrine skin, now lingers on my
wrist as cicatrices.
And in the shoreline of my cerebellum,
I have long ago forged a museum to
treasure the "Prashasti(s)" that i composed
each time you smiled at me
Yet, the wounds that went unnoticed
now rest on the cockled pages as poesies.