Two Girls Walk Into A Bar

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This was written in response to a prompt from Reddit, about what it would be like to get talking to someone at a bar, and realise that they are an alternate universe version of yourself.

“Vino blanco?”
I am echoed,
she is served first,
sips and strikes up something.
We have Cádiz in common,
but not exploration.
I’ve returned weary,
my eyes benching baggage,
nightcap and nap are miles away,
because she talks,
and she talks,
and she talks.
I am talking to myself.
Listening,
chained to the conversation,
dragged on the back of a verbal moped.
I’ve always heard I talk too much,
I hear it on delay,
long after I am done talking,
she suffers the same affliction.
We share a scar,
car accident,
back of the neck,
please don’t ask further.
I have more,
from wilderness wandering,
and her left ring finger is decorated,
with the one treasure I never found.

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