This love is like the ghost of Schrödinger’s dead cat

I’m sure my moans could carry
across 4000 miles. More maybe.
They go as the crow flies when I think
you’re in another woman’s bed.
I have my fingers crossed
against it— the thought of your closed curves,
your celestial bodies ascending
in euphony…
nauseating—
warm hands, heads, tongues;
caresses are just speculative structures and, god,
I’m linking them all,
killing Spacetime.
Your disparate points should be mine.

In another version, somewhere,
a ghost cat stuck up an impossibly branched tree;
its non-stop crying across dimensions
for the you
who wants to be with me
can be heard right through Earths 1-42.


roifaineantpress