Our histories lie beneath us,
between our teeth and inside our brains.
We pick at them with floss
and try to fold them into squares, in drawers.
You see our past as plague;
I see our past as poetry.
Our histories hang above us,
like ripe fruit, picked on summer’s days.
They are strong, and weak,
tempting and avoiding.
You deny the fruit is waiting,
I try and make it into salad.
Our histories bleed inside us,
through marrow and blood cells and air.
We know each other’s blood type,
and yet still aim to perfect our valence.
Our histories inflate in front of us,
big, hope-filled balloons of gas and light.
We watch carefully, forecasting storms
in order to weather them quickly.
Our histories remain close to us,
highlighting our prism of love and demonstrating faith.
Our histories are buried behind us,
as we watch our shadows, holding each other.