This may not be enduring,
but forever never keeps its promise,
appearing fickle, anyway.
You may be a master of vices,
when I’m polishing my virtues,
for use in saving myself.
As long as words get written down,
we’ll have our story,
as souvenir, to savor harvest.
Poets in a world of profit,
where lovers become benefactors,
beneficiaries of dejection.
This may not be withstanding,
but with you exploiting me, mutually,
we can hope to break even.


8 thoughts on “symbiosis.

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