He was well-dressed and well-read and thought highly of himself, and somehow, some way, the Sun would willfully split, so that he may shine. He picked words, then he picked flowers, then picked words and, soon enough, there was a dissolve in the disparity. We were one in heart, two in mind and three in Spirit. He would crave me and, I, him. So, one night we built a cradle in the concave that seated directly above his top lip; danced along the lines along his eyes that were a consequence of having laughed too hard. The following morning, I woke up with a poem on my tongue.