The first day, unclear. Each day after, selenic; nothing but oceans and craters. Sidereal days; synodic nights. The world quartered by distant stars. Ours was a history of apparent size; lying to the sky. A history of light, reflected. History nothing but the voiced bilabial plosive. By which I mean: the voice tract occlusive; all airflow ceased. By which I mean: I don’t know what to say.
For any two variables, we can estimate the change and relationships between. You called this regression: linear and simple. I called it the steps to your apartment. The locked door. How exchanged glances become the barycenter of balanced and balancing bodies.
The truth is, a first morning together is always multinomial: such discrete possible outcomes. Perhaps it’s only supposed to be a moment; all just aleatory in the end. Perhaps it’s about how you decide to partition the probability space of an egg, double-yolk, sunny-side up. What you might call the problem of two bodies; but what I named the tide.