The side of your conscience
who you never consult,
but talks to you anyway,
is wearing jeans and a red sweater.
"I," she declares, "am not so bad."
and pulls her hood up against the wind,
settling in on your left shoulder.

On the other side of your head,
a soft glow illuminates the girl
who helps you make the right decisions.
"You," she comforts, "are doing very well."
She's all in blue,
and the weather can't even touch her.

One of them talks to God,
and the other one talks to herself.
It's no surprise to anyone
which one is which.

But if you listen closely
on any quiet Thursday,
you can hear the violet tones
of their duet.
Your devil plays piano and sings with the voice of a thousand sinners;
your angel gets the melody.
"We," they announce, "get along just fine, thank-you."

Every other day of the week,
they share headphones.
There are only minor disagreements.

Their similarities
are almost as striking as their differences.
The same shade of hair
frames contrasting faces,
which contain, in total,
four sparkling eyes.
"It's not enough," they warn, "to know right from wrong."
but they never stop the song for long enough
to explain exactly what they mean by that.

"Without me as a counter-weight," the Left points out,
"you'd fall straight over sideways."
which is true enough. Even more, though,
it's a fact that without blue, there is no purple,
and then what would red do?
"Why, I'd spin right out of control."

If pressured,
or even if just asked, the Right will divulge
her feelings towards their ensemble.
"You'd be surprised," she says,
secretively proud smile twitching at the corners of her lips,
"how well North and South can work together."

They split orders of fries,
and talk of survival on islands.

"I lie sometimes," your lighter half admits,
"but not very well. I'm just an angel for show."
Her opposite smiles.
"We are bookends, baby," and tunes her guitar.