What an absurd prospect
Expecting you to give me any details
Leaping to the conclusion I’m a weaver of answers that could be pulled like a slip of paper tucked inside an eat-while-you-pay-your-bill afterthought treat
Feverishly leaning into me for insights shared only as confetti from punch-holed vintage magazines
Left to sift through blank pages stacked the breadth and width of canyons
Bouncing us back and forth in their echoing
Floating above the horoscopes
Swimming around the therapy
Still, you give me nothing
So my answers sound like forged portents
Fortune cookie offerings
Both of us know your defiant stubbornness
was never going to offer clarity
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