Our passage
shouldn't ****,
but when we pull
the blades from the
****** bath,
who's to separate defeat
from *******,
luck from loss--
you've lied dormant,
getting lax on the sweetness of love,
but yesterday
like a bat out of hell,
you awaken--
writing 3,
strolling up to me
confidently and whispering,
"compete".
A shiver for my spine,
a sudden grin,
and itchy fingers longing to bend--

My dearest friend,
now we begin,
should we pick a dueling topic?
A type of verse?
An emotion?
Draw the bounds of battle, Clark--
let's let the kiddos watch
from behind glass
as we tear our lives anew.