Like a poem
I can’t understand those who find comfort in math. How can something be so continuous, but no numbers can describe having feelings that can end? Tell me, what is the diameter of a heart that’s broken? A fraction of a fraction of the pieces it smashed into. Because all objects fall at the same rate of 9.8 meters per second per second, but I crashed to the ground while you floated away. Maybe this is a lesson in the loneliness of infinity. My landing is a plot point, stuck static on this grid. Where somehow you manage to run right through me, leaving the past behind. These lines cross once and continue forever. Always approaching but never reaching the end.
What is the equation for how your eyes used to look at me? For how your heart thumps in your chest even though it feels like it’s concave? We can…
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