We speak of only the most honest things. We gaze into each other blatantly

in a standard, standoffish fashion. Polite proxemics and sufficient physical distance, asking questions in a safe environment behind the counters. We catalogue important dates, making sure we keep our taxonomies straight. Poetry is to be read only out of dictionaries. Discipline is to be attained.
We do not have a heart of slate; it is only our habits that have made us grow.
Slowly we pulled an ocean between ourselves and everything we thought we needed: life insurance, traffic jams, café late. Recently we discovered ourselves on a peculiar kind of island, not rooted to the core of the earth. Weights had to be put beneath it—we chose circumstance, randomness, the whispering science of clattering plates and other household chores. When this wasn’t enough we also hung weights from our arms and legs. Anything would do really. Pots and pans, turnip and ginger wrapped up in ribbons and bits of tinsel, a bottle of vinegar here and there. But he got the cereal boxes and I got the gin, and we had to sit long hours at the tailor’s, sticking needles beneath our nails to numb the pain of discrepancy.