he’s preoccupied with death
she said with a raised brow;
it was what you did
when something profound was said

his voice is meloncholy he said,
and over-dramatic
an amateur playing at a game
he cannot get into let alone win

they listened to each other
and found critical beauty
in their voices
it was a match made
in the New York Times Book Review

but passion that burns
with the ink of a thousand pens
can only last so long;
until they see the words of one-another
written painfully across their faces

“you’re pedantic!”

“you’re a dick!”

and they parted paths
to find passion in the pages
of other terrible poets
and the dry eyes of other critics
waiting to be mutually hateful


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