Enigma

In high school, calculus and biology were

my favorite subjects.

I relished in how they were the

high-ranking officials in the matter,

the ones able to classify in taxonomy terms,

label in solid, color-coded tabs

without so much as a

lub-dub of the cardioid.

You were the first,

the first to have committed

every possible logical sin.

It clawed initially as a nagging question—

an infinitesimal black seed in a nook,

but even holding something light for

a long time makes it grow heavy.

Oh, if only I could penetrate

that masked surface of yours, my mind would stop

scattering into pieces all the time.

I’ve tried for days on end to

quantify your breaths,

classify your disheveled bangs,

expose those question marks and nascent curves brimming

just below gray-stretched skin.

But every time I think I’ve written the perfect equation for you,

you twist an integral around my neat figures.

Back to square one again, miss.

I’ve been forced to erase my

concrete slate for too long.

One time too many, and I’ve all but let go.

As my fingers blossom open,

petal by petal,

I realize that that’s how I’ll

always remember you:

an enigma in the haze.

I’d like to think that I could always rally derivatives

and microscopes to my aid,

that my eyes could extricate

the answer by merely gazing,

but equations and theories can’t solve people.