We were crying, wrapping our bodies together and sobbing into our faces. Our eyelids were swollen, heads throbbed, hearts raced as our minds tallied the damage like casualties on a battlefield.
We said sorry over and over, petting each other like wounded animals, ashamed and embarrassed for losing it, for letting it go so far. We took turns explaining and comforting, carefully so as not to interrupt, displaying our gentleness like a white flag. These things happen, we said.
We were exhausted, but hopeful that it was now over.
Our expressions had softened, we were no longer the people we sometimes can be but always regret being. After hours of pulling apart and coming together, of pushing away and dragging back, we built up enough friction that we detonated. A mushroom cloud formed out of the blast, we stood in awe of what we had done, and by the time the dust settled our poles had shifted once more. We changed back, rotating, me a south and you a north or me a north and you a south, our poles pulled us together and held us in place once again.
Five hours ago, when this all started because of what I said and then because of what you said, we separated. You pushed off and left to be alone, stretching the invisible strings that held us together. My body, still attached, pulled after yours but I fought against it and felt the strings thin out, weakening. I got up and went into a different room. The house was silent. Our ears perched to any sound the other made, a ruffling of blankets, a sniffle, a page turning, all the while our insides screamed injustices into our heads, turning me into a north when I used to be a south or you into a south when you used to be a north. We accepted changing into the people we sometimes could be but always regret being, we felt them take over and we let them because we were charged and ready.