Love, in the time of the Cubicle.

I try to contrive
every now and then,
the imagery formed
by your transient presence.
I tried piecing you together
like a complex puzzle;
thronged each fragment
by way of short glimpses.
I’ve built the context
like a financial model.
I made a thousand runs
of the formula in my head,
and when you spoke to me
I input things you said.
I’ve modeled those eyes,
almond and deep.
Transcendental, elusive,
they find me in my sleep;
I will never understand
their economic cost,
they make me feel right,
but also lost,
like in a labyrinth,
or some wilderness.
And I rambled lonesome
at the edge of sadness.
From the inside,
the feral creature is released,
Completely transmogrifying
this analyst.
Those smiles, flashing wide
they wound me well;
they drown my reason;
they urge me to dream,
of infinitesimal numbers;
of endless river flowing.
But I can not see the model
that I am doing.
Theory has it
that all things have their costs.
I pretend to understand,
but I am only lost.