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One

Nestled in this polygonal
The walls are a familiar yellow
The window looks out to a familiar blue

Here, the folds on the dorsal side of my hands multiply

I manage each tick
Filling the spaces in-between with adjectives and verbs
It feels good

Here, the grooves on my palms sink deeper

You are black and white
With four corners
I’m an arrow
Ready to attack any tangential point

I’m not scared
I’ll traverse this plane alone
Keep tally of anyone who gets in my way
And wear the number like a badge

Here, my hands are folded

But sometimes a breeze storms in
I see myself through the door
My eyes to the oval sky
Witnessing yellows and blues I’ve never seen
The glowing sphere warming my hands

Published 23 Oct 2016

Husam Machlovi

Looking inward by transmuting ideas into writing, music and software.