Isa Yap
The Law of Diminishing Marginal Utility So this could be an economy too: love, self. The clean mathematics I’ve learned from books, the formulas. The physics. Equations that consist of the smell of your hair, the reek of alcohol on that tie your wear: the argyle one dangling from my bedpost, that you pulled over my eyes. Equals your laughter. Equals the night and its stars silver as bullets. The night that becomes another, where I’m lying down alone. Another where I’m saying your name, and it splinters in the hollow of my mouth. In my memories it becomes miscalculation. Overshot. An experiment of the body. The tangential movement of someone in doubt. When in doubt, check the appendix. Read the stars. Pull your suit off your shoulders and look in the mirror. Understand that it won’t solve anything. Make demands for all you’re worth. I’m drawing the lines, still trying to work it out.
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heights