too easy a cliché
apples and oranges
both fruits
have seeds
grow on trees
unlike money
he says
handing over my weekly bread
breathing hard for the work for it
I do
not fall
far from the tree
I see in the mirror
thisclose to me he
thinnest glass between worlds
the in-between split of a split-second
the microscopic middle of the smallest time increment
separate us
a press flattening atoms so hard
all becomes clear
every air molecule sucked up
in a dead vacuum moment
I see him there
him, me, him, me

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