Pushed together, pulled apart, we were purported pluripotent.
We developed as an organ, a benign and beating heart.
We sought physicians for histology. Discovered spinal symmetry.
Within the sacred bowl of life, our innards spilled in red array.
I wondered what you'd have to say if in your mouth you grew a tongue.
I wondered what I'd have to say if in my head I grew a mouth.
Instead we moved into a house, connected by a modem.
A surgical removal could have cured us of our malady.
But seeking to remain benign, we discoursed through telepathy.
How long could we have lived like this?
With our then-rudimentary eyes we saw shapes coming toward us:
amorphous and black, shedding tears. We had nothing to say.
"We go back to our house. We are lovers. We cannot stop loving each other." I come to confiscate your love. What will you do? Small shrubs grow in the blackened yard. Sun, which is yellow, shines in through the windows, now barred. You were watching me eat. Put your tongue in my mouth then retract it. We were waiting for our recompense. But everyone knows love is bankrupt. On the billboard in front of us: breasts. The empty middles of the mannequins that peered out through the glass. Reprehensibly, I mouthed the words: I love you.