What do you do,
when you hear nothing but
only rounds of your own breath?
Remember the ones you love? Pick a pen up and pour yourself out on that page? Let the smoldering anger of self-pity out of you while you dance to the tune of liberation?
Or let the pity culminate to trigger the self-destruction?
What do you see,
when you have a glass of water with a steel spoon
on your table?
Your weird faces in the spoon? A tornado in the glass? That subtle dance of the water as you drum the glass with the spoon?
Or the tumbled glass, and water hitting the floor?
What do you become
when nobody is watching you?
An impatient wave? An uninhibited river? A piece of land after the cyclone subsides? A pebble stone at the shore, in a cusp of sand?
Or an exorbitantly selfish and an uncanningly dark animal?
What is your third face?
Who are you that you show to no-one?