proof

The morning’s mourning dove cares little of this sorrow;
grief arrives in small packages –
a five minute phone call, black and white serifed letters, typed,
your now capped initials.
We  have dispensed with informalities.
Suddenly the words have turned hard-edged, upper-case,
an alphbet soup of language – trite meaning;
‘yes I am fine’ –  you ‘care’ – paltry terms when spoken after love.
Even the palm against my heart leaves me cold.
Palms up and empty, I come up useless;
even my name remains unspoken.
Why I may cease to exist! Lost in life’s absurdities.
Nothing meant anything
everything means something
somethings mean nothing
this all means nothing anymore.
I can whisper in all honesty, “Once upon a time & etc…”
… an echo lost in Grand Central.
I am just a variable in your equation.
You never were quick with numbers – the necessary calculus of love.
How one integer or event sets off another
and anther and another and another – sequential –
-    a Lorenz diagram –
perfect and repeating, lines never touching.
You couldn’t stand the beauty – so precise, mathematic.
No. No logician you.
Too emotional to detach.
You doubt my calculations, stuck in your own nonsensical algebra.
Paragraphs of the If/Then hypothetial;
purity, love, happiness – all the Platonic virtues.
You place them in your equation, then add in a freight train,
a sure collision course it goes like this;
How fast must the in-love must run
if they are to out-run the heavy freigh-train’s fury?
An impossible feat, and you know it –
the math is elementary, simplistic.
You insist on the X of the equation unknown.
Put the kibosh on it all.
Never understanding the Why behind the Y.
Love’s blood on your hands.