He said his toes were cold.
She asked if they felt like grapes.
He said no. More like angry beans.

Sometimes she'd say "goodnight" at 4 p.m.
He said "sweet dreams, gollum."
She didn't mind.
She liked being called swamp creatures.

They talked about soup.
A lot.
"Soup is just hot juice with friends in it," she said.
He said that made him uncomfortable.
But not enough to stop thinking about it.

She told him her soul lived in a glass jar.
He asked if it was dishwasher safe.
She said it exploded once.
He said, "classic."

Sometimes they didn't make sense.
On purpose.
Sometimes on accident.

"Do you think pigeons have religion?"
"Do you think I could win in a fight against a minion?"
"Do you think the moon gets tired of being a metaphor?"

He sent a blurry photo of his sock in the sink.
No context.
She said it looked like a crime scene.
He said it was.

They never said "I miss you."
They said "the sky looks stupid today"
and that meant the same thing.

They never said "I'm sad."
They said "I put peanut butter on a tomato and I hate myself."
Same thing.

He said, "I hope you get possessed by a polite ghost."
She said, "Too late."

That's just how they were.
Rotten little sunflowers.
Glowing in weird places.
Wilted in the same direction.