We talk, and our conversations need explanations and diagrams and charts (and the occasional apology) to grasp. So rewarding all the way to the end, with your machete and my hand grenades clearing the path to understanding.

We aren’t really opposites, but complementary. Your dawn is my twilight, your intensity is my peace, your past is my salvation. Unusual, but not difficult.

Our house needs walk-in closets for our skeletons and our baggage. Each skeleton would take a bag and move out. We downsize, as yours and mine slowly annihilated each other like antimatter versus doesn’t matter anymore. 

Your imperfections soothe all of mine, and my faults give you someone to believe in. Our winds blow in the same direction, sometimes in a circle around our eyes, locked on one another’s gaze. Our gentle breezes clash gently, swirl gently, like bodies intertwined, hopeful kites with no strings.

In the evening, I think of you. In the morning, I smile, thinking, I fucking love you. Our futures are a menu we can sample, savoring every moment, trying new flavors but leaning on old favorites.

We don’t need blankets to stay warm. Coffee and conversation and closeness is the magic.