half poem half dream.
The ineptitude of the soul in dealing with loss.
I was never good at math. You did this, then I did that, then you did this, then equations of differentiation inert.
How all this addition of time, and hands that clenched, is summed up in a hole, abyss.
I was never good at science. You touched me, and cells awakened, and I touched you, and the earth still moved.
How all this physical matter resulted in combustion, leaving pulverized steam I once licked off your skin, a world away.
I was never good at business, you gave this, and then I gave that, and you took again, and kept the fists open for gifts I never knew were precious.
How all this profit left us bereft, my waist a hollow sphere of foreign bank notes, useless.
But I was always good with words. And you, never with listening.
How the benediction fell dead on this gravesite of knowledge we once called love.
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