Between us, we leave a bullet-riddled breeze
shot through with holes by edgewise words
and afterthoughts, in tangents wrought
like filigrees.
Enlaced upon the surface of
a cake we bought, a cake
we neither have nor eat.
One can't have cake
in metaphors.
Just icing. But let's eat
a thought, instead.
Here, you try mine
- I just want yours.
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