Equations

It isn't the way she waves at the night sky.
It isn't in her balance,
or the raw capture of light.
It isn't her persistence (that others insist is a species of stubborn).
Or the flexible nature of that boned spine.
I thought it was her voice that kept me grounded,
the optimistic sentence ends that should have marked a question.
But solutions weren't her thing.
I wrote us into bold equations,
desperate to figure out our finite.
She glowed with the after blush of attention,
her details difficult to detect with my naked eye.
She believed the curvature of space was a human illusion.
The stars might be suns, she says.
Don't wait beside me.
It's too easy to burn.