When we weren’t cooped up indoors, the most gratifying thing
about those fights were the ends. Once we’d exhausted

our grievances or grown bored by what they implied
about us, we’d go out for a cheap meal on High Street.

I’d order egg on rice that came mixed with fragments of shell,
and you, noodles. There we’d spend, instead of bitterness

and resentment, our hard-won resolve to not worry
about whether the lid of the toothpaste was put back

properly or if it were my turn that week
to take out the bins and yours to do the dishes.

These things, after all, could once be left till morning. But now
that we are floating, locked behind a fragile set of expressions

that barely hold together, we no longer spill our yolk over
the floor and scramble with adulterated joy toward the climax.