I am not abstract; I am perpendicular
when I wake up in the morning
with my hair sticking out at right angles to my head
and my body swung parallel to the pillows.
As light refracts ever so slightly through my windows
I shake out the surds from my sleep
and solve the quadratic equation I dreamt up.
My head curls into itself, an incomplete spiral
I don’t feel like straightening into a line
to eke out another day composed of formless words,
not when I miss your curves beside me:
they are on the other side of the page where I work things out,
softly, mathematically elegant
sleeping an hour away in sinuous spacetime.

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