And then I realized: it was irrelevant;
that it would not matter if, instead of me being the spent idealist,
you were the one reciting my name in lyrical ballads at midnight
and broken verses in the early morning
because in the end
you would still stand behind every table
and I would always watch you collect scraps of paper
that resembled your soul.
You, the in-vitro Joker,
And I, the Infallible Lover of True Madness.