The Universe is but a Network of Interdependent Probabilities.
Yet, here you stay, in practice acting more
one from which I can not escape.
You may feel like impossibility,
but as sure as I’m still breathing,
my thoughts will create reasons to return to you.
I know that each time I wake,
the rush of you is waiting, sworn
to grace my head with silly notions
of our escaping with each other,
but then soon after, I’ll recover myself—
I should know by now that love is no good for my health.
Still, you’ll have my heart racing,
I should probably tell you about the affection
that’s baiting me, but I’m not sure that’s a conversation
that I can sell.
So I write it here, in hopes of—well, I don’t know what.
Perhaps this is an illocution. I could give it up to you,
but that would take precise execution.
Even then it may be no solution,
more like an illusion than means of absolution,
more like elusive, barely a beggar’s chance at improving affairs.
I could dare to let loose and lay my thoughts out in a fusion
of emphatic rhymes, poetic screeds, epigrammatic lines,
and dramatic pleas for your constitution. I’d bleed for you,
leave my heart out bare, leave no room for confusion,
no room for ambiguous conclusions.
Perhaps doing this will lift the noose
and disperse these daydreams
it seems thoughts of you are oft producing.
Even if I hand you this as unrepentant proof
of how much of my attention you command,
I can’t imagine that you’ll care.
Still, I’d like to prepare something grand,
it’s my nature to embrace hyperbole.
To chase dramatic tropes and wear
them as a cloak in the streets for all to see.
Oh, how audacious I must be
to call what I do poetry.