We may have been something cosmic.
Your lactic acid in the way in my mouth.
Funneling down every Sunday from that one Sunday
after we first met.
You may have been lived or born in me.
Something you were afraid of.
Now force the separation.
A grand algebraic nervousness.
I may have been the same
yet unborn, unknown in you.
So, why would we love?
If we had to force a separation.
Create someone new to walk with us on Sunday.
Editable and re-editable.
Cannot ever think of you and I again.
Standing in a candy shop on a spaceship.
Or whispering kinky things to each other
in the middle of the night.
Oh, my goodness, what that lactic acid used to do.