Superstition

Subtle, sweet yet smoky - the story begins

I rose my hand
when she asked,
"do you believe?"
I was the only one
she saw hope in.
My prism
became the gateway of her illusion
I was insane to make her superstition my screen
how could the smell of an unripe theory
be so intense?
almost like truth.
We knew it
both of us
verity was but an extension
of our imaginary believes.
Could we be more synchronized?
Probably
if by its end, I wouldn't cease to exist.

Shringi