What a fatality,

what a fatality it is to sleep with oneself,
to get up with oneself,
to argue heatedly
to devour breakfast, lunch and dinner,
to tear apart each other's tiara made of thorns
and thunder, to talk about books and travel,
without taking advantage of each other in anything,
knowing in advance that we are lying to each other
that we have read little
that we have hardly traveled
to stop visiting each other
or the absurdity, as in this sad case,
of using the plural to talk about oneself.
this fatality of us
while outside the world
pulls off daisies.