No Lemon, No Melon

A Palindrome Poem

Palindromes read the same forwards and backwards, like a mirror reflecting a hidden truth. This poem uses them not just as a playful device, but as a way to explore the cycles and echoes of a relationship that seemed balanced, yet never quite was.

No lemon, no melon,

no sugar left for the tea.

You used to bring sweetness

into bitter mornings—

but now there’s noon

between you and me.

Civic warmth,

that everyday kindness—

gone.

I don’t know when it left.

Maybe you do.

Was it a car or a cat I saw?

Did I ever really see you clearly?

Or did I project the shape I needed

onto someone who was always just passing?

Able was I, ere I saw Elba—

I used to think I was steady.

Capable. Whole.

But then came the unraveling,

quiet and exact.

Madam, I’m Adam—

our symmetry felt mythic.

It fooled me.

You mirrored just enough

to keep me hopeful,

but never enough

to let me in.

I’ve been in this rotator loop—

replaying conversations,

your half-smiles,

all the almosts.

It feels like poetry,

but it’s just repetition

in disguise.

Never odd or even,

you left the way you arrived:

with stillness.

A name in a mirror,

unchanged,

reviver unclaimed.

You called me

“yo, banana boy” —

sweet, silly, forgettable.

But you never understood

that a Toyota is a Toyota.

I was steady.

You never stayed.