*six pm

*

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.

.

i propose that fate is not the ¹⁰¹⁰⁰¹

opposite of choice;

if fate, choice,

form a triumvirate of cause

and effect

nestled beneath

every pin feather

of chance.

in this i avenge myself

and sacrifice evey word i wrote

to the wrath of *♡.

even in being as odd as I AM.

a living breathing

example of peculiarities: contrary things

(○:□), (○:●) (°:•) ≡ all manner of (♡-He)

so perfectly; perfect opposites--*♡ asked me:

"what have you cut off of your flesh,

lately?"

so i confessed

to dumbing down the equations

so that every man could understand them.

i confessed in flesh my weakness

having wanted to be seen. (el roi)

and *♡ hardened your ♡--so the

anointing would be crystal.

when the new words come before you

when you open up my vision.

*

.

.

.

it was not coincidence.

when *♡ called me by name a number. .

i now know how fate is not a chance: the ¹⁰¹⁰⁰¹

opposite of choice;

i know now that fate, choice,

form a triumvirate of cause

and effect

nestled beneath

every pin feather

of destiny.

"you must work six days to reap the blessings of the seven,"

*♡ told me...

*He told me.. .

*He told me. . .

*∞. . .

.

.

.

found images of you moving on a scuffed vhs tape. i heard your voice sing sweetly something i never thought i’d hear again. the coffee buzzes my brainwaves and allows me to think clearly.

spotify playlist where i saved the serenades you wrote for me. every melody from the songs we ♡’ed from that concert we drove to Baltimore to see. we spent the night together in that fancy suite. we ate the world’s worst pizza and smoked the world’s finest weed.

i noticed how the girl in your songs had red hair before she had mine. how you thought your favorite color was green before you realized how dangerous were my eyes. i think you’re a liar. because you texted me last Thursday just to say. you didn’t wanna ♡ me anymore.        .  °

                                                                                              .                     vv.      ○

i don’t think it’s too funny how every time i try to write about you, all my poems ends the same way. you’re a cycle of never ending torment. an apocalypse where my ♡ seeks rest and the grief lasts for eternity. i would believe the gift of having you once, and the feeling of losing you, akin to losing everything is the punishment i get for believing god exists somewhere inside of me. in a place within my psyche i long for it to not be.            °                                        .    .                        .                           *

                                       .                                   :.                       .  *         , 

i’d stop writing about your café au lait eyes all together if the fondness of our encounters didn’t purr like the white noise of needles scratching vinyl records. i’d stop dreaming of you in color if you didn’t look just like a sunset. i would rue the day i crossed your path and askew the day you. crossed me. although you were the one to do me wrong, i am burdened with your memories. as you live a life that seems like paradise without me.. .

are you lonely? is this why every now and then you call me? do you long for my warmth the same way i long for your, ‘i’m sorry’. if you could go back to last ○ would you take back all the horrible ways you hurt me? would you have come to my house at all? begged for a last ♡ and the back of my throat? would you have fought for me? would you have let him have me so easily if you knew then what is reality this instant?

that i am a married woman, now.

.

.

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i. the limit: some infinities are bigger than the other…

Determining the Slope:

I rack my brain until I focus in on one instant of time that distilled the peak of happiness between us. I subtract me from the equation and am left with only *u. Naturally, I take out a piece of paper and compose the instant into a poem.

Conceptualizing How Small Infinity Can Be: I fold the paper continually, constantly, evenly, until I cannot fold it any further. I realize, conceptually, that I could continue to fold it, but it’s too dense for my lady fingers, still, it’s lost no value, it’s lost no mass. I finally grasp infinity in the palm of my hand. I finally have conceptualized how small something so endless is truly. I no longer feel burdened by the pain of losing you, and dwell in the blessing of the memory in perfect peace. Expressing the Derivative Function:

Guilty. I went off on another tangent, didn’t I? Trying to create a harmonic frequency between us.  Attempting to unionize algebra and geometry; discovering calculus. ( – us )  It clicks. It took only the crack of a heartbreak. Although, from within the confines of our 4-D spacetime it sounded more like a big bang. It wasn’t quite so dramatic from the vantage of a higher plane. My guts, thoughts, and inner-workings spilled outward and in every direction — hot with grief but cooling quick— the seemingly un-seen ingredients congealing into spherical structures and gaseous masses. I step back from this new universe, wipe the salt from my bleary eyes, see clearly and declare, “It is good.” Glad to finally understand what I was made of. Even if I had to be dis-integrated, first. Isolating the Integral: I had a thirst for knowledge; crafted water. A little bit of hydrogen, some oxygen, atoms, bosons, and quarks in all their flavors squeezed together into a swirling tonic fluere. I take a sip and remember being human. How strange. How lovely. I fashion a lime, —slice— my drink becomes complete.

I recall the slope of your throat and calculate it inch by inch forever. May the limits of a frail female heart never condense *u into something finite in her fever. May *u flow forward in infinite flux, avoiding every event horizon, transcending lightspeed, and all that matters, in every direction you choose to fly in. ii… . . .