Nothing is ever singular anymore.
the coin always has its two faces:
for the sixteen-year old high school girl
gazing dreamily at a wishing fountain,
chanting idiosyncracies for her first love;
for the forty-three year old beggar woman
staring blankly at an empty tin can,
babbling incoherencies for her last hope;
You, me, we all toss our coins everyday.
except for that brief moment
where we embrace the suddenness;
the thin veil overlapping
between innocence, ignorance.
In the rising and falling,
we wonder why:
that only in midair can our souls