you exist not
in the thin wisps of dreams
like fraying shoelaces, the aglets
fallen out a year ago
My greatest lament is your projection -
reduce the contours along your waist
the warmth of your lips
the chemical in your hair
to the senseless plane.
Spacetime is a four-dimensional topological manifold with a lorentzian metric and a time orientation satisfying the Einstein equations.
And so I claim the paradox.
We stand still but seasons
change, the sun and moon
share the sky’s watan, and the Earth
fails to escape the time continuum.
That is why
I latch onto your protons and electrons,
your inorganic representations,
your notion of existence.
Someday, I’ll meet you again.