you're not just another point
in the middle of
the Gaussian curve of my heart

or a passerby
who stops to say, "Hello, how are you?"
but doesn't wait for
an answer

and I'm tired
of treating you like a probability
equation

or feeling like you owe me
forever

because I'm sure there are times
when you sleep
while
awake

and when your bones grind together,
making music
of your scoliosis

when
you feel but a skeleton clothed in skin
that doesn't quite
fit

but we haven't outgrown ourselves

no,
we're simply experiencing
metanoia
at the exact same time

so be thankful, we're both
made of
stardust

that children wish on,
like
prayers,

and that two Frankensteins of
blood,
cartilage and skin,
and
of wrinkly gray matter

can love
with the imitation
of faith
reserved for a place with no
entropy

of celestial beings in the presence of Elohim

because my
God,
is that anything but average