We lean against each other like bookends,
mirror images down to our thoughts on the evening
perched on the shelf above the bar
screaming drinking songs
gratuitously out of tune.
We drop ourselves into language
playing in it, drunkenly puddle jumping
through nouns and verbs and made-up in-betweens
coating ourselves in dirty water and pencil lead.
You’ll play a nonsense tune on your beat-up guitar,
serenading me to sleep,
pretending things rhyme with my name.
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