Objective Count

You hold ends and beginnings
In the depths of your eyes,
A confusion of joy and sorrow
Driven by madness maybe,
Because I feel like I’m drunk
Whenever I hold your gaze.
You set me adrift, and half the time
I’m not sure if you’re
The best or the worst thing
That could have happened to me.
I just wish I could make a count
Of how many ends
To how many beginnings
And have an objective measure
To set my subjective giddiness against,
But it’s a complicated math
That can’t decide between
Adding and multiplying,
Addition and substraction,
A zero, a one and a multitude.
You started with an end.
And that’s a bad sign, isn’t it?
Because your presence slowly
Disolved my whole life before you.
But I’m not sure if that’s only an end.
The end itself had a beginning
And that beginning was, in fact,
That you made me realize
There are other things out there
And that I might deserve them.
But then, I perhaps only tried to go
For the one possible (or impossible) thing
That had your unreadable eyes,
And your quick, delicious smile –
I have no idea how my new life
Began rearranging itself in this
Beautiful shape that
Sharpens all my corners
And hugs all my curves
Like it was custom-made for me.
Does it matter that I only ever
Held your eyes and followed you
Like you were the Pied Piper
And I was starving for your song?
Does it matter that I stumbled
Upon the right path by mistake?
Is intention relevant to mathematics?
Do two small slices of something
Hold the same equality to a bigger one
When they were intentionally cut
And when they crumbled away?
I can’t even really disregard all this
And look towards the future.
It would be romantic, wouldn’t it,
To say I only need the very last thing
To not be an end, to not be our end.
But how foolish would that be?
Because, yes, you’re powerful enough
To leave me splintered and bleeding
Not from my heart, but my soul
When you’re finally done with me.
But something tells me that
You’re also incredible enough
That when I crawl my way up
And bind my wounds and cracks –
Because I always do at some point –
I’ll find that the pieces you left behind
Make up far more of me than I was
Before I ever met you.
And maybe, just maybe,
Some of those parts would
Never have happened
If it wasn’t for you.
So maybe I’m trying to count
Apples together with pears
So that it might tell me
How many plums I’m missing.
Maybe no count is possible of life.
But I’m scared to be left without
Any objective measure at all,
Because everything in my eyes
Is distorted, painted rose and gold.
I am drunk and high on you,
And it’s getting harder to remember
That I want to be objective.

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