In the scope of the world, this moment seems insignificant.
Our paths crossed once, over a year ago today,
wherefore hers headed directly forward, mine, back behind her.
Yet somehow in the bleary amalgamation of harmonies that bonded us,
I trusted her
and suddenly the moment is everything.
All at once my shoulders carry the weight of her actions,
and she isn’t even aware of it.
She isn’t unfamiliar with this practice of using and abusing old friends, who now stand as opposers.

If it’s true that still waters run deep,
then her depths are the sort of drowning, dreary indigo pervading the seas.
At the very place where her voice procures victims like the sirens,
where the ebb and flow of her unpredictability resides
and fishing for sustenance becomes fishing for complements,
I am lost
and my tank is running out of oxygen.
My pools of light are nothing compared to her vast oceans of darkness.
Her words the divisive horizon line,
but the language foreign.
Yet she always knew the right thing to say.

If I am finite then she is infinite,
but together we were asymptotic.
Our dynamic, not proximity, was the defining factor.
Her relative minimum still far greater than any of my relative maximums
and still her insolence knew no limits.
Perhaps I was her variable and she grew tired of solving for x
or perhaps she was too caught up in the problem.

If I am the simmering scarlet in a room full of her friends,
then she is the gray in a world full of color.
Her ego an antagonizing charcoal,
her sweetheart, paradisal charade a dull pewter,
her infatuation with her own cinder and ash precede the lavenders, sapphires, and teals that surround her
my vulnerability a deep crimson
and her hesitation in using it to her own advantage clear as a crystal
it didn’t exist - not as a color and not as a hint of remorse.

Quite conceivably, our colors were never meant to mix,
as our intercept never meant to exist
and this moment never meant to bear such significance.