L = (mr2) should procure the desired result → if you know the math, variables & control elements, if you possess the values. Use the calculator on your phone. Download the graphing app.

Is the L for his lips like Brando’s, always quivering on the cusp of licked deliciousness? (Wait, is this anatomy / biology / chemistry? Too much study ≠ not enough feeling?) When he leaves, I taste / dream him all night.

Maybe I do not know my values. I make notes w/ a No. 2, smearing them over the edge
of pink & yellow post-its left on the desk, left like crumbs / tears (…who knows yet b/c sex is an amoeba, the same yet never, & he has to be home.)

Maybe I find it alchemy, that oldest science, absent code / ethics, every measurement in
winks & nods, shiny black hairs collected from his pillow, exhalations like breezes
captured in a jar ⇒ shaken to whispers that pour forth revelations.

I should gather my data, I know his mass, (86 kg × 187 cm,) feel it atop me & under me
& curled to my left, that density of his weekend thighs lumbering across the room & his
radius can only be described as a solid 8 ½. (Imagine the torque on that thing!)

But my r becomes a revolution, flares that burn / distract me when he comes back to this bed, when his r revises to gyration because he needs to swing his mass, because
his arms are like the well-twisted grapevines I swung to cross the August low creek to a
different lover patiently waiting on the other side, mud to his knees.

Why do I resist this change? Why do I apply force ↯ bad directions?

Why do I enter false values? (As if stars are mere ℉ flickers.)

Are they lies or mere inaccuracies? Home from third shift, breaking moonbeams while
undressing in the hall, he slides quietly under our sheets, into my longer (& thus older) L & smells like basic white bar soap. (The other ⇛ citrus & cedar.)

Neither knows I spin in place, accumulating momentum → refusing to move, to erase
my values & undo any operations I have completed in daylight / moonlight (that secret,
secret indigo) despite the increasing pain of a hot knife blade on my dry liar’s tongue.

I have become a mountainous sum = a mistake, a miscalculation between functions /
symbols / outcomes. Despite the cool dark of slumber, he seems content w/ blurring
below our gaussian line, as if the atmosphere will protect him from future impact.

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