If we took the tangents of each crease
that lies along the curves of your lips
we could make matrices, incandescent constellations
extended in 4 dimensions through the continuum,
of all the things you’ve ever said to me—
The 1st π Day
I baked blueberry & you recited your favorite sequences (pausing only
when our creases came together.)
The 11th time we hummed “My Heart Will Go On” (perfecting the pose
in our kitchenette; bell peppers & peas
applauded from the pan. My aorta
melted like almond butter with a hint of peppermint.)
The 789th time you lied (your face the shade of hoarfrost on sand)—
“It’ll be alright.”
These will exist as mathematical entities
independent of time’s rough touch.
Coastal winds, Monarch migrations,
entangled heartbeats, vocal vibrations,
the knifepoint equilibrium of a Waltz
or of lips rushing together like tides:
The common denominator is You,
jagged and infinitely receding. You,
isomorphism among my leaping transformations. You,
breathing.
Not breathing. You,
waiting to be discovered again.
Devin Guthrie is a disabled, genderqueer, asexual working towards a PhD in Existential Psychology at Texas A&M University. Their poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction has appeared in PRISM International, The Notre Dame Review, Confrontation, Hubbub, The Wire’s Dream, The Adirondack Review, and others.