Still we ate dinner, two rats no longer on the run
Still we gulped down emotions, instead of water
Still we picked butterflies from an old garden,
Under the shade of a tree, careful beings, never stunned.
Still we bid on madness, to work its spell when the time comes
Still we doubled up with laughter, occasionally when
Reality felt more than a rash on the skin
Still we marinated chicken, for saturday nights
Alternating till one of us came home hungry
Piecing together stories made of leftover instances
Jotted in a Planner, the thinness of a fountain pen and black ink


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