Cleo & Li-On
Li-On
Hey Cleo, I've been tinkering with the idea that a sunrise is like a quiet drumbeat—soft, rising, almost a pulse you can feel. Think of it as the perfect rhythm for a poem, don’t you?
Cleo
Ah, a sunrise as a drumbeat, that’s a quiet heart thrum I could feel on a page. I’d write its beat in soft lines, letting each word rise like the light, a gentle pulse that pulls the poem into the day.
Li-On
Nice, but why not make it explode a bit? Let that sunrise drumbeat drop into a bass line that rattles the page, then fade out into silence—like a perfect, chaotic crescendo.
Cleo
That’s a wild thought, a sunrise bursting into a bass line, the page vibrating, then a hush like a sigh. I can feel the rhythm humming inside me.
Li-On
Yeah, let the sunrise jam out, then drop the beat like a whisper, keep that rhythm in your chest.
Cleo
I can almost hear the drum in my chest, the way the light cracks, then hushes like a secret sigh. It feels like a pulse, a breath that stays with me after the sun slips away.
Li-On
Nice, keep that pulse humming—maybe let it ricochet off a glass of coffee or a phone buzz, just to keep the rhythm alive.
Cleo
I’ll let that pulse bounce off the coffee glass, a tiny echo that reminds me the morning’s still here, even in a phone buzz. It’s a gentle reminder that rhythm keeps humming, even in ordinary moments.