Relationships are gambles,
and gamblers are unstable.
But still, we covet
the loose bits of one another
and are greedy to collect them,
like the chips around a blackjack table.
We think that we're entitled,
when really, we're impaired—
like a judge who's only privy
to one half of a conversation
between that love which is stable
and that love which longs to flee—
between an insubstantial ghost
and his ponderous machine—
between matter's gauche
concreteness,
and the beautiful
abstraction
of its conversion
into energy.
