perhaps, really, there is no quantifying us.

this world has taught me to count,
to encase in numbers that which i need to understand.
1-2-3-4-5 steps.
5-10-15-20 minutes.
days, weeks, months, years.
weights, heights, masses, volumes.
speed, velocity, acceleration, gravity.
circumference, radius, pi.

i was taught the power of limiting
the world in figures,
to scribble portions of myself in digits.
height, weight, mass.
aptitude, grades, IQ,

with my pain a matter ranging from 1 to 10,
with moments of my infiniteness marked in calendars.

today, i cross out a date yet again
with the hopes to value or devalue
what has become of us.

how much time has passed
since your avowals of timid affection?

how long have i dwindled in this uncertainty?

how much fonder have i grown of your crude edges,
your depth, your hand, your presence?

you have since then taken up much space and time,
and i am only all the more restricted
as i attempt to measure out you and i.

perhaps, as in the universe conspiring
to make itself infinite, boundless, unrestrained,
refusing to subsist in small portions,
we too will find ourselves massive, perpetually expanding,
never bottled up in moments,
nor encapsulated by words.
perhaps, really, there is no quantifying us.
there is no qualifying the finiteness
of what little of each other we have.

for j.e.