I sat
next to the drunkard habitual;
admiring
the Day’s news as Life
continued
to erode the love
in
his soul.
Meanwhile,
I found truth
in the
slow moments promised
by another
set of intoxicating ovals—
the variety
that reflects souls as divine hearts.
Perhaps, it’s best to let every moment define love,
if only
to find the formula that equates to it
—maybe
one day such algorithms will be moot—
yet,
such patience is well served
for
the half-lives of fickle quarter crises
of
the celestial soul.
Until
the moment such stale-water ales
stave
off the pain of distance,
I’ll
let the alchemy speak plainly;
let telemetry
and chemistry continue
to viscerally
conjoin hearts
perennially
meant to renew.
