Q.E.D. (Quod Erat Desideratum)

The theorem of us:
your spine, a radical sign,
my mouth solving for x
find me where the variables burn.

Your laugh is a struck match (a sulfur psalm)
in the chapel of almost. I kneel.
Your hips, parentheses I pried open
inside: a liturgy of yes written in wet ink.

 

The room? A chalkboard.
We prove each other in gradients:
your nails carving axioms on my thigh,
my teeth, a proof by contradiction
Let the equation shatter.

Touch is an incendiary dialect.
Your wrist a cursive scream.
My tongue conjugates your pulse:
1st person, present tense, plural.
(We are the verb. We are the fire.)

You say careful like a blade wants to be swung.
I say devour me in the grammar of scars.
The bed: a pyre of what if.
We burn in hexagons
honeycomb of moans, geometry of more.

Aftermath? A blasphemy.
The sheets, a palimpsest of sweat and almost.
We’ll call it nothing (lie).
But the moon licks its lips
our shadows, still fused, still famished.

This is how theorems become myths:
not with a conclusion but a collision.
Two bodies, one conflagration.
Q.E.D.: quod erat desideratum
what was desired, what was demonstrated.