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.