'Elevens' become deeper.
Eyes dart.
Lids narrow.
Every word tasted.
Script savoured.
Bitter or sweet?
Spicy or bland?
Language devoured.
Lines ingested.
Couplets ate up.
The feast of the poem relished in full,
but the regurgitated burp of thought repeats -
"Is it about me?"
"Is it about me?"
"It's about me!"
"Isn't it?"
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