S through X you’ve no equal, an answer
without an equation, how
I’ve come to you on so many

occasions, taking advantage of six
variables and nine positions in
your order of operations

am I the metaphysician to cure
the loneliness of your condition? or
am I just one parenthesis bending

to your whim in a series of
characters, a string of figures led on
by you? those of us who choose to do this

to make our Selves more miserable on
purpose, know this is just half the trouble
that having to exist after

the problem is the algebra
of wickedness, which, for such a
literary man, is scandalous as

every letter reminds me of your
body, how I cannot, for the life of
me, solve what makes your pursuit so worthy.