Mine

I kind of just want to unapologetically post this and let the three people that actually follow this blog figure it out for themselves. I meant it to be deeper than just "hey, his penis is bleeding," but I may have failed so whatever. I'm satisfied with it, though I feel like the world as a whole isn't. *shrug*

URRGGGGHHHH. :(

Words, words, words. (II. ii. 1230)

Seven hundred and three days ago, the day we met.
The countlessness of our relationship,
the breakdown of social expectation.
One hundred weeks and three days—
and we still stay up past midnight talking.
Seven hundred and three days...
maybe if numbers were words, they would mean less.

It wasn't one point five five one years of together,
it was eighteen months and eighteen days
of disconnect and momentary passion.
I have truly loved you for five hundred sixty five days
of this expanse, this fabric in time.
But, if numbers were words, and yet—

It only took three days to drown;
only point five three one percent
of the time I spent knowing you, I have spent not loving you.
Only a fraction of a hundredth,
an infinitesimal amount,
of the past eighty weeks and three days
have not been suspended in haze.
Hazed meanings and words,
words that might make numbers mean—

If numbers were words, would they mean any less than they do?
Would the kiss of five hundred one days ago
disappear in a few hours?
Can numbers make forever happen?

True Love

Here's to you, my 89,
Because when I ask you for the cosine
of pi over six, you answer to me
it is one half the square root of three
Oh how I love thee, my dear 89.

And though David G. Myers*
may make my knees weaker,
I hope one day soon he retires,
for he mistook a flask for a beaker.
But you will never lie to me, my dear 89.

No one can derive like you
I ask d of 2x comma x, you say two,
and I know it is true.
For you, every function I will define,
because you are my dear 89.

I am the only one who can appreciate
the magic you do when you integrate.
And when I work up the nerve
to ask for the area under the curve,
your answers help me pass, my dear 89.

---
*Author of Psychology, 7th ed. (2003), AKA the best textbook ever.

I wait

I wait. It's been well over 24 hours.
I feel myself in need.
You said you'd keep in touch.

My fingers drum on the table impatiently.
I wait.
Could something have happened?
Where the hell are you?

I wait.

You're too preoccupied now, is that it?
Though it's understandable...
I wait, growing anxious.
I'm a nervous wreck.
My neck turns at every possibility--
"Is it you?"
No, it's someone unimportant.
But still my heart beats threefold,
"it could have been you."

I start pounding my fists on the table, like a ravenous animal
like an addict in withdrawal.
I need you.
Greed creeps over me, then anger, then fear.
Abandonment.
It's been well over a day...

I wait.

I've never had to wait.
Much less this long.
Worry... despair.
I wait.

My drug of choice so quickly torn from me
and there is absolutely nothing I can do.
You're so far away, so distant
so many things could have gone wrong
so much rides on this moment yet...

I wait.

Deep breaths...
deep breaths...
Until I realize--

Frustration.
Fury.
Outrage.

I need you.
I'm going more insane with every passing second.
My insides churn
my muscles convulse.
I cannot sit still.

I fidget, biting my nails to the bone.
Tapping my foot erratically on the floor

Is this what betrayal feels like?
I take every opportunity to check
"Are you still alive?"
I wonder.
I wait.

I'm picking myself apart without you.

And all you have to do is say hello.
like you goddamn promised.