Whither?

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Where were you
when I wrote my first poem?
You were not able
to taste the bitter
metaphors in them
the first time it was uttered
by my lips.
You're right, I also have to ask myself.
Where was I when my pen touched
the old paper and scribbled its
magical thought?
It was the other way around, you were there,

 you were the poem itself and I was lost in you.

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