They do it for all the things
that come in pairs
now-a-days

and for the sake of Christams
and zippers
and heavy objects.

They do it for the words
they haven't even thought up yet,
for the things
they don't know exist,

and for the sake of carrying on
about the dreary days
with hands to hold;

They do it
for the sake of forsaking
faking smiles
at fake smiles;

and for all the tongue
twisting kisses,
and mouths that remain
perfectly peaceful in their predictability.

They do it for all the miles
they would have to walk
and years they would have to age
if they didn't do it,
and for the sake of all that

They'll do it,
until their entangled bodies
turn to dust
and they resent even their ashes
for settling
on the floor.