The kissing bristles of the toothbrushes gets me, says more than I can when telling her. I love the unity formed by merging symmetries in odd arrangements. She’d call it tesselation and I’d say fate. We’re both correct in our ways and compliment each other. I find a thousand tiny reconstructions of my self in her patterns, as I’m sure she does in mine, each one slightly planar as a spiral wrapping our lives in expansion from the focal point. So, the kissing bristles get me in their bed, saying what I can’t before they pass across my teeth.
I tried kissing her, gently at first then slightly harder. Her mouth was there in all the right ways but distinctly empty. I pulled away, the taste of ash and resentment on my tongue. She looked at me with lethargic stability but I couldn’t keep it up, I moved my eyes away hoping to keep my soul to myself. Don’t you want this, I asked. Her voice was a pressed reed, pleas written on papyrus in a since lost language. We’ve become meaningless to each other, dead script. I close my eyes and wonder if she’s thinking about him.
A Few Short Words 