I think of us as a Venn diagram, two ovals making
union, my yin seeking optimal overlap with your
yang. But north-facing magnets perpetually
polarize our perimeters, every minor interaction
implodes into a push-me-pull-me tug-o-
drama – the toothpaste cap rolling in the bathroom sink,
the crusted cans cluttering the recycle bin, the
maxed-out (again) Visa. Tits-for-tats, our minefields
of petty disgruntlements escalate, words carelessly
scattershot – always, never, fault, hate — leaving
behind crumb trails of unarticulated ultimatums.
But then, we sleep or, perhaps, make love – no, it’s
fucking pure and simple – and we lose ourselves in
the animal noises, the words peel away, and our
amalgamations circle to their singular intersection.