in bed, i wonder why, my leg will not move. i try, in the dark, to pick it up, with my mind; it will not move. even though i can, feel it with my hands. i realize, it is hers.

in our love, we intersect, when we are both feeling the same. thinking the same thought, in the same way, laughing, saying, “i was just thinking that.”

other times, we empathize, to become the other. the same object as before, now subjected to the same eyes.

later on, as we become one, none of this is necessary anymore. to say that one is this or the other is that, and then devise how to get them together, is nonsense; they are one, and one is together with itself, always.