Blueprint

Every heart beats

left of center,

like a sun that chose

the same spot to rise

in seven billion skies.

We are cities

built from identical plans —

blood rivers running

their ordained routes,

neurons firing

in their destined directions,

bones rising

from the same sacred geometry.

Strange, how we speak

of foreign bodies

when we're all reading

from the same blueprint,

all carrying our organs

in their ancient arrangements,

all breathing

through the same holy apertures.

Tell me again

how we're strangers

when your tears

fall the same distance

as mine,

when your spine

holds the same stories,

when your hands open

along the same lifelines

I carry in my palms.

We are billions of editions

of the same text —

different covers, perhaps,

but letter-perfect

in all the ways

that keep us alive.