You and I are parallel lines
going around in circles —
not elegant abstractions on chalkboards,
but bloody proofs scrawled across generations
that proximity doesn’t guarantee closures
dopamine and cerebral spillages don't agree to the obvious truths of math
We move side by side,
like grief and memory,
like privilege and denial,
like god and silence.
We are the mathematical equivalent
of almost.
The geometry of ache —
two straight lines pretending
they’re not running from the same center.
Go ahead, calculate the distance.
Try finding solace in symmetry.
Tell me if it soothes
when the bed is warm
but never whole.
You — always just fucking there
but never here.
Me — measuring your absence
in broken promises
and phone calls that end
before the dial tone dies.
We scribbled futures
like ignorant men drew maps —
with rulers and delusion.
Never mind the bodies buried beneath.
Never mind the borders burned
into the flesh and the skin
with chalk made from colonial bones.
We didn’t fall apart.
We were designed
to never touch.
Don’t romanticize it.
This isn’t tragedy.
It’s engineering.
It’s god playing cruel games
with straight lines
and crooked intentions.
And still —
we orbit each other
like survivors of the same explosion
too traumatized to collide again.
We make art of our angles,
confuse motion for meaning,
pretend infinity is profound
instead of pathetic.
Fuck Euclid.
Fuck symmetry.
Fuck every poem that dressed our dysfunction
in silk metaphors.
We were not star-crossed.
We were formulated mutations.
Parallel, not equal.
Not meant to intersect.
Not meant to matter.
Just two pointless existences
floating like dead fishes in the depths of a folklore
told in dead languages.
And when I die,
burn this geometry with me.
Let the ashes scatter
in between the spaces you never filled.
Let the wind draw curves
we were too rigid to imagine.
Let our story end, finally,
without angles.
Just ashes.
And absence.
And one last unspoken line.
No comments:
Post a Comment