the rest of them shrink back, dash away, but lydia tastes the numbers; lydia’s surrounded with the fragrance of constants; lydia opens her eyes, opens them again, and sees equations streaming through the universe. (x)
in which peter’s roar drowns out mathstiel’s voice, but xe continues to reach out to lydia, whispering in a tongue that only the two of them know
If he were a mathematician, he’d graph the exact curvature of Dean’s ribs, discover the circumference of his wrists, then the angle of his thighs. He’d put him down on paper in immortalizing equations, proofs to document that, yes, Dean was here in his bed.
Tell me about the one where the border between heaven and earth is an asymptote
and how they always get closer but never touch.
How Dean was a function, and Cas was his derivative, the lines running
until xe lies tangent to his curves.
It’s not like a segment where the lines have to end somewhere,
it’s more like the y = x scribbled on the blackboard,
how they opened their pencilbox so they could calculate, and the numbers
were a smudged grey, and every time they kissed there was another equation
Look at the pages crumpled on the floor. That means we tried, that means
Tell me how all this, and calculus too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by x = 16sin^3(t) and y = 13cos(t) – 5cos(2t) – 2cos(3t) – cos(4t).
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.