these incidents prove maddening.
i keep catching myself trying
to figure out whether or not
coincidences explain the way
that hints of you are interwoven
in the secret corners of my brain,
binding fresh philosophies with the strings
of new theories, stitched together
like the seams of my favorite garments.

from day one, i knew you and i were cut
from the same cloth. i saw your ears perk up
with curiosity when we first spoke about anarchy.
you doodled idly on the corners of my psyche,
renditions of ripe flowers, burgeoning
at the tips of my fingers.
though, i must say, in a certain way,
it has been a joy taking the time
to expose the treasures locked inside your mind,
like peeling back a fruit
and sampling the sweet juices i find,
an ambrosia fit for a king.

in the myths of the Greeks and Romans,
a Muse was a source of inspiration—
typically feminine—that controlled
the whims of destiny,
made the words of men
dance right off their tongues,
to be interwoven with the myriad threads
of elegant tapestries chronicling stories
of humanity's fate.

is it such a stretch to suggest
that i might not possess full faculties
of my tongue?
that, at the very least,
my mental agility
might be deadened
at times beneath
the empathy that screams
between you and me,
as if we were rogue planets
spinning infinitely
around the same sun.

with our constantly interconnected
strings that sing so eloquently
like strummed scales
on a ukulele,
can i entice
you to hum along
in harmony?

it doesn't seem
all that far-fetched to me
to think the atoms in our bodies
were forged in the core
of the same supernova.
if you don't agree, Listener,
then lean in close. get cozy.
i'd be happy to remind you
how we sync together
perfectly.