Maybe, you’re right.
You’re too damaged to fill the variables between us
I can feel the scar tissue “she” left,
But just when I’m about to get an angle
You’re looking for all the ways to lock me out of the grid.
Probability, you call it.
You and me, we’re two scalene triangles.
Acutely looking for some more congruency and a little less guesswork.
But for all that tangent you’ve gone on about the now baby,
It’s been you that’s been going ahead and doing the math.
I see the way you’ve been mapping me out of your head
And finding all the complex numbers.
Trying to find proof of why it won’t work.
One more day
Just one more goddamn equation.
Fuck your trigonometry.
Q.E.D.
La Absurda 