Half a heart.

It is not just about a simple switch of colours, or a mere change in numbers.

At its very surface, it may be: a sort of a tender sky blue giving way to an electric high violet; a humble 23 in favour of an equally unremarkable 27; shiny black and white keys to stiff copper bronze strings; rolling green mountains towering over deep blue seas; a lingering fat yellow moon before a smile full of rainbows.

But given the right choice, and subject to a universal mutual agreement that aligns the sun, stars, and everything in between, sometimes the most trivial things are the ones that best define who you are.

Shapeshifting.

It could have been like any other day – dull and dreary to the bone, tired and stripped bare to the core.

But the sky was bluer than any other blue ever possibly concocted by a meticulous painter in preparation for his first masterpiece; the clouds as white and fluffy as newly harvested wool off an unsuspecting sheep; and the moon so bright, it could help power the streetlights of a small, fiercely independent nation.

A skip to your step, a leap to your heart, and no one would want to have it any other way.

What remains.

I am not your personal walking dictionary, someone’s know-it-all encyclopedia, another language go-to person, your own bespectacled HTML geek. Believe you me: you have got it all wrong, for I am not a search engine that can readily whip up results before you even had time to switch to the next browser window after keying in your earth-shattering, mind-numbing query.

Friends do not waste wine, so here I really need to draw the line.

The feeling is fleetingly fleeing, and somehow I am not impressed.

Perhaps this is where I shall belong no more.