There is a silent truth that fully obeys the plausibility of nothing.

Between my fingers, i see one of them growing flabby upper arms and a bloated face

While the other one i try to look for in the attic of memory

There is a serpentine guilt that i allowed for no images of the other to be impressed.

Beyond the channels of heredity, i am more of the other, quaintly forgiving, never forgetting

That there was a child who hid under the shadows of the other, refusing the labours of distanced love

And that remains unperturbed still.