Separate

A day can go by where
I separate the moments we spend
“together”, we’ll call it,
from myself.
My breath, I catch, and relieve
my consciousness from the attempt
of reaching ideal: our satifaction. Together,
we’re supposed to be, to fit the archetypal,
in all of its typicality:
fairies, their tails, and tales,
fancy a dance dismissing the admittance of the truth.
We’re a match on paperwork, yet there’s
so much of actual work encumbered.
Disparity of depth: my page is number 128 and yours is,
perhaps, 12. At least what you will admit to, and
that’s okay. I’m afraid, too.
The difference is readiness.

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