Once the numbers had started
we knew there was no going back.
So early and often,
each turn was met with a choice,
and so, the number combinations
stopped being a coincidence.
With the girl firmly in hand
she secretly swore,
these feelings we were having
were simply passing pounding.
I was eager to believe her,
and in this way,
she calmed the nervousness
in not knowing how or why
the temptation in counting
seriously surged through us
and fuck, did we play.
Numbers were tied
and stretched out in her room.
Yesterday was such a foolish year,
voices came and went
and just as unexpectedly
love cut across both our throats.
We bled out
stupidly ruining our already clean shirts.
Still, the numbers made sense,
and in their own complicated way
we couldn’t just simply stop counting.
Love’s decisive sickness
had only grown complicated and strong,
and before we knew it,
we were looking back on yesterday
like it never truly happened.
It’s been a decade now,
love has gone all dumb and blind
with no real excuse or reason
11:11 still comes up.
