We love in sine curves and ellipses
measuring our algorithms against Descartes
and praying for the stars to align
in some kind of celestial hypnosis.
We speak magic rhythms of tribesmen,
long before Arabic numbers and false idols existed.
I count to you in Morse Code, numbers tapped out
against the darkness of the sky.
Watch as I switch beats, breath easy
under summer vowels.
You argued for linear algebra while I drew lines in the sand.
These days were never meant for static movements,
kinetic energy pulling us along side,
neither willing to face gravity,
nor able to keep our feet on the ground.