19.6.22 (Eight Months Later)  

I miss the fridge magnets you took, 
when the TI-84 pixelated graph
of our function to each other,
approached its closest limit
to the origin, before shooting away
into our opposite infinities;

the vertical asymptote of
which our lives tended towards,
now resides inside of a floral
cubical fabric storage bin, located
in a knockoff IKEA Kallax,
gained from helping your grandma
evict one of her tenants;

once bought from Kay Jewelers,
our promised convergience
now exists as an untouched artifact,
just as how our fridge magnets,
two shared halves of travel souvenirs,
repulse away, from a white refrigerator
our gastrointestinal tracts, once mutually, 
shared their substantial nutrients from.