[ of typos and calligraphic breaths ]

​I always kept a two-poem gap

between my blank sheets
and your syllabic rains      

That’s how it worked for us  

dark rooms and scribbled poetry
wasn’t our thing      

you preferred intersecting thoughts
and I left tangent memories
but we both allowed our muses
to explore the other side
of metaphoric puns
that bards never dared to        

I laughed at a pregnant poem
settling beside you 
and you set hyperbolic clichΓ©s
behind me 

That was our way of balancing
the symmetry of reality and visions 

but the irony is 
they were always meant to be imbalanced
to ensure we could transform 
by scooping out the extra essentials
from either side 
to shape another ordinary day.


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