It’s funny how circumstantial our relationships are. We come together under very specific conditions, and fall apart under just slightly different ones. It takes quite a lot to keep a chemical bond going. Twice as much to keep the human kind. If I were in a wheelchair, my circumstances would not attract those of so many others. But, I am not in a wheelchair. And yet, I am still somehow the sum of my circumstances, a product of the algebra of love that gets a little bit fuzzy at times, when one plus one aren’t always quite two, and often they don’t even equal one another. So, we walk around adding up people in our heads, carrying over their pluses, subtracting their faults to glory and yielding proofs of theorems that even our hearts can barely bear under the weight of fabricated dilemmas. And, most often we don’t even find an answer. We just keep on doubting the signs and the axioms and the truths, and we create narratives out of numbers, fictionalizing facts that we think we can weave together into a tapestry on a plane. A kind of geometric form that holds together against all the other dimensions which we don’t count. We take the tangents to our lovers’ words and make splines out of straight forward intentions; bending the universe through a monochromatic prism of our desires, we focus, but only on the edges, because we don’t really want to see the proof of our faults. We pretend to be perfect, by being even more human. And, we strive for greatness through a singularity of our own. 
But, while some of us run the numbers, others are hard at work cleansing ourselves into the past. Washing away the present on the river shore, we string out our hearts, and lather them with the soap of slippery reminiscence, until the suds of discontent foam around them, reflecting rainbows of futures that were not. Until, our hands run with the love that we once had to give but that now must dissolve away, given back to the stream of life and surrendered to the currents of destiny. We drown our hearts in buckets full of yesterday’s hopes for a tomorrow that won’t ever come, and then we twist the fibers of our being and wring out the pain of what we lost and what was done, of chances that won’t return and moments bathed in sun; we wring and twist, until the fibers begin to tear, and we throw our arms up in the air and bring our hearts crashing down on the rocks of sobriety, of coming to our senses, to our being, to our selves, and we let the love, and the pain, and the forgone hope pour out of our hearts and onto the river of time, so we can look forward, and they can go back, back to the past, back to where they are no longer felt or seen, except as reflections on an amber twilight, when the eyes are closed, and the river burns crimson hot with the memories of our passions that will never die.