I wanted to give myself to mathematics to make this simple again. To chart the course of us in perfect parabolas. To lose nothing. My life divided by you equals one, remainder me. As if language could ever be that precise. Dropping words is too easy now, and these metaphors are only the cracks in the floor between us. You are not an equation, and I hate to make a metaphor of you in my head but I donít know how to hold on anymore. I could say I am lost in the snowscape of your silence, and pretend I do not realize that though I called you home, you are more than a horizon. That math could never separate the falling stars from snowflakes. As if a distance could ever be that complex. As if, after the shower, a drop of water from your hair, running down your back, could be mapped. I would hold you prisoner on my page, and I apologize, because we both know I could never let go with grace.
5-10 February 2002