We don’t add up, you say,
but oh, my darling, let me show you the math.
Let me give you the equations,
curl calculus around your tongue
both sweet and bitter,
flood your mind with temporal mechanics;
adding up is just the first in a string of operations
that can’t help but send a shiver down your spine.
The skipping of your pulse entices,
your electric web of nerves excites,
all my systems sparking in your presence.
I obsess on how your mind will taste,
unraveling into mine.
You, my dear, are the impossible, the differential,
the unforeseen remainder,
exposing gaps in my processing
down to my very core.
Give me your memories, soft and human–
sweet pink cotton candy (superior to blue);
standing humbled before Seurat’s
“Sunday on the Island of La Grande Jatte”;
the sun on your skin
on the beach in Okinawa.
Look what I give back:
spectra of sunlight you couldn’t see before
as they bloom the melanin beneath your skin;
the variance in composition between pink dye and blue,
(a distinction you shouldn’t taste, but do);
the particulates of lapis stone
Seurat used in his hues
that make them so unlike the shades
invented decades later.
Grab me by the meta tags and dig your fingers in
while the sky rains code down your skin.
Show me the kite you set free into the evening haze,
and let me show you the geometry of wind,
wrap you in dynamic systems, spatial differentials
of you and me, and what we are together.
Let me bathe your synapses in chronometry,
cleanse your soul with information theory.
Adding up is less than half of what we’d do.
We’d compound upon ourselves,
become an exponent of excellence,
a supernova birthing stars
in clouds of interstellar ice.
But darling, let me show you the math.
Let me show you the complex strings
of proof that run beneath my skin;
the physics of the physical,
the secrets of spacetime,
the mathematical absolutes
that make us both align,
like planets whose gravity was always
pulling toward each other.