Bipolar

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Bipolar by dardenitaaa

Nothing is ever singular anymore.
the coin always has its two faces:

Heads–
for the sixteen-year old high school girl
gazing dreamily at a wishing fountain,
chanting idiosyncracies for her first love;

Tails–
for the forty-three year old beggar woman
staring blankly at an empty tin can,
babbling incoherencies for her last hope;

You, me, we all toss our coins everyday.
Nothing happens,
except for that brief moment
where we embrace the suddenness;
the thin veil overlapping
between innocence, ignorance.

In the rising and falling,
we wonder why:
that only in midair can our souls
truly sigh.

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