The Scientist That Had His Way

When I pried your head this morning I didn't hear
The whine; I couldn't see the squealing gas and
I couldn't decipher its howling rasp for what it was intended to be.
The heather texture of the early hour and the
breadth of the hair dryer’s willful power coaxed the hydrogen bonds to
peel away your matted curls.
Your head dipped, in lukewarm, Oedipal fashion; the smoke unfurled and
The malt-encrusted fault line gave; equations
Came in an awful wave with combat
on their minds.
The thought of sweat pervaded the air;
and, pinning me with
your soft-serve stare, you cataloged the humming sounds of
Was I kind to you this time?
Do you mind if we can’t, conceivably, rhyme?
Do the screeching symbols and the returned thimbles deter
You from coming over?
And when those numbers sailed above our heads in
Stark, acerbic threads of dread I knew what it must be
Like; to be erroneous, eroded,
To be (with) you.

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