Two peas in a pot, we bob in the same sweet brine,
moonlight pickles our laughter, turning seconds to dill.
I’m the wrinkle you never shake, you’re the salt on my every bite—
when the jar tips, we roll together, small green planets in a galaxy of steam.
If the world forgets to boil, we’ll sprout in the dark,
vines tangling like headphones in last night’s coat.
Crunch us, sugar us, we still taste like home—
two hearts beating in one glass, forever uncanned.