If instead the speed of light could vary
and it was distance that remained constant
(from any frame of reference, at every time and place)
it would mean I could never touch my love,
but could spend the day trying on each gaze—
perhaps a red-shift for when he expands space
between bursts of words to admire the celestial—
perhaps that mirroring trick when he rounds the sun
delivering glimmers and then onward to explore all vastness—
perhaps taken by surprise in a flash
of his inward collapse and rebirth, again, again.
This is the kink in what's known I can't let go.
I draw my theories thus from the need for new order.
Since the calculations suggest an inch is infinite
from my peculiar perspective—a hole in reality—
I hope he will grant me the next best thing
and let me note down his improbable illuminance.
With gratitude to the wildly irresponsible idle theorizing of Simulacron3 and C-Dawg.