We talked unknownst to each other, that,
All hell would break loose.
What could possibly come of two talking in harmony?
Us, filmy for a film even,
Shattered beyond cry or wail.
Crying for spilt milk is adagedly a vestige
The value of milk spilt resurfaces only then,
And crying for lost value,
Is it a vestigial adage too?
After all, none can rue when they have what they crave,
Two people desperate for each other,
One voluntarily cocooning, the other involuntarily so,
Nothing of what we had felt fake,
Though people make it out to be.
Trust, on which everything should be based so,
Even that ensured,
Neither of us get why each of us is separate.
All four desperately wanting the other,
Too egoistic to spell it out
And yet still confined,
And shackled to persons that they bear less of the love to,
Or is that false?