Beneath the simple assembly of eyelids

too heavy to resist their fall,

we puzzle ourselves in countless jigsaws

scattered without box art.

But even in the unthreading of all my skins—

old, impossible, future, fantasy—

I piece myself in the present playing pillow,

cradling the crook of your aching neck.

Our lobes nestle in gentle acceptance

of their grooves and gaps,

comfort found where we touch

just as much as part.

We celebrate electricity

circuiting our shared curves,

but no corners constrain the wondrous

stretchings of identity.

And the myth of destined fits

has no room for purchase,

each snug cove a well-worn hug

adjusted to the other’s tides.

Steven O. Young Jr. is knitted within the Great Lakes' mitten, where he earned an MA from Oakland University and occasionally slathers soundstages with his body weight's worth of paint. A previous contributor to Quibble Lit, his latest literary homes include 300 Days of Sun, Washington Square Review, Sweet Lit, Meniscus, and The Word's Faire.