Pre-dawn.
I’m groggy.
You draw me to our desk,
our milieu safe, your intent, crystalline.
Your skin,
smooth, cool to my touch,
awakens me.
I pick up my pen and we begin.
Conjoined twins,
we share a single brain.
Communicators, over our lifetime,
we aspire to impose form upon reverie.
More often, though, we revisit unresolvable, old arguments and -isms
knowing that at day’s end, we’ll shred them.
Still, we labor to array our words into thematic sensibility.
The work is maddening.
Your patience reassures me--
screeching screeds never daunt you.
We decided long ago to allow our discourse to wander where it will:
And that keeps us sane.