Lying naked under wool sweaters, and reminiscing on the day
I wrote you a love letter without
periods: as if it would never end;

lover, we are caught in a dissected fairy tale,
written thoughts broken with punctuation,
authors deceive us that stories are designed to be
interrupted, that a book is only good if it ends in a period; love,
some of the best stories end without any closure;

I spend my mornings plugging your name into
differential equations, just to see if you are a constant,
just to see if you are an element of the solution,
on a decimal point, I see whole segregated from
fragment, and I cannot help but sympathize,

we pass life like a novel, expecting things to change, to begin like
the indent of a paragraph, sticky-noting pages and moments,
as if God could make one second longer than another,
as if everyone stopped watching after love was found; lover,

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