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.
Split again by distance but tethered differently now. We walk a spiral together, passing similar landmarks at different latitudes. Each new angle viewed comes with a small exclamation avowing everything wondrous. I wish I could reel in the rope that binds us, though tracing its knots is more comfort than I could hope and its weft is weighted perfectly. I think of that inexpressible smile, a thousand types of countenance in kaleidoscopic incarnation, who’s light does it shine on tonight. I think of all I love and fasten it around myself, mooring my spirit to vast and unpredictable happiness.
I’ve been repeating myself a lot lately, which I guess is better than repeating others, but still, it feels like I’m stuck in a spiral, a vortex not a closed loop, spinning round and round and revisiting myself at moments of minor variation. It’s mildly maddening, like missing your subway stop for malfunctioning doors. I wanna get off, but then it feels like I’ve tried that already. Maybe I should stick it out, things could get better. I think they get better. Have I tried that? I don’t know, it feels like I’ve been repeating myself a lot lately.