I’m going to light a match and throw it your way,
I’ll be perverse, bring it all back for you, at least for a moment, a reverie to before you strayed, when your need to please took the path that looked well on paper, defaulting to the logic of Boomers, and the fluff of money.
Gonna stir it up again, just for fun, at least I’ll know I tried, that I never lost faith in the fire, my secret belief in your stars, and the juicy rose that collapsed in your heart.
Throw in your maths as I throw in the match, ¿what are the possibilities of brittle petals reviving from the hangover, the drunken aftermath, your broken body, and self induced amnesia?
I’ll bring us back to the heat, the roses of your scientific dreams, bohemian late nights. You with your books and a cold pizza, half consumed. The perpetually unmade bed, sleepy eyes, like the deepest drop of dew on a petal of red freedom, deep fire.
This is my own science experiment to throw us back. Don not try and apply your theories on it.
It’s a leisurely summer morning with nothing better to do, but to dive deep in the realms we know almost nothing about, and yet light us up enough to alter the space-time continuum of this room, our spaceship. We converse. Chopra’s Quantum Healing, time travel, the mysteries of particles involved and your mind pure stone, Asscher cut semi-precious, reflecting on possible theories. One by one we climb, ascending, and your heart blooms fragrant roses.
I’m feeling a tad wicked now, wanting to watch you stir, as I throw this match into our past without much thought, just a freak of piro to watch you bloom, fill in his slippers again, the spacey physics professor, the renaissance man who left us stunted.
¿Will you please free him? Give him back his books, let him find God in the beloved length of wave, speed of particle, and don’t let him stray again.