what we become

the
late-night chats,
the stress and the
unraveling,
conflicting values and
a slow gradual meshing,
these are the things
we become.

a collage of
painful frustration,
strokes of
unimaginable perfection,
bits of tinfoil confusion
mixed with alienation and
threading through it all,
a lovely, untouched
pristine ribbon
of genuine happiness,
these are the things
we become.

it can never be perfect,
not when i'm involved:
i'm like the square root of
eleven, or some number
that ends in a jumble of
unintelligible and
unsimplifiable digits,
and you are
an unknown quantity,
an x or a y or perhaps
but nothing i know how to solve for.
these are the things
we become.

but in the moment,
with no thought of
repercussion,
past,
or future,
you are warm and precious
like a mug of mulled cider,
and i am
happy.
this is what
i hope to become.