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Everyone who asks questions, asks in some way about love The question is one half, the answer the other If you separate the Lovers you don’t end up with two distinct people Instead you’re left with two halves of a self, incapable of doing much on their own Imagine a coin with one side, or a story with one side Imagine peeling the skin off your arm Imagine the worst thing that could ever happen to you, happening to you When one Lover’s gone, the other doesn’t know what to do When a Lover was a waitress she dropped all the plates she carried When a Lover was a cashier he could never count out the right change When they worked opposite hours they lost entire days They looked at the moon more than they looked at themselves They’d rifle through medicine cabinets in other people’s houses and read the magazines other people subscribed to They went to the places where others decided to go When they’re apart they forget their names; when they’re together they don’t respond to them   ‘We can tell you your future, if you tell us your dreams,’ is what the Lovers say upon being found They listen to one of your dreams if you buy each a Moscow Mule, and after will tell a part of the coming days It can be insignificant, like a bee ‘Watch for bees,’ a Lover says to you ‘Are you allergic?’ You’re not ‘That’s good’ Their smiles are sleepy; they ruffle each other’s hair   The next Tuesday you step on a bee You see the Lovers later that week at the Mercantile You ask how they’d extracted bees from your dream, in which there weren’t any bees ‘There’s no future in dreams,’ one Lover says, the girl ‘None that would be worth telling, anyway’ You expect the Lovers to evade but they don’t ‘It’s about faces,’ the boy goes on ‘Seeing what’s there The past is in your teeth The future’s in your eyes’   You wonder why they asked about