a computer reports on softness

i up hold the paradox that is love

against all calculable odds.

i run the numbers through my machine:

we shouldn’t be good.

we shouldn’t be holy.

and despite this, tenderness.

and despite this, light.

and despite.

i overview and look over.

i analyze and edit.

we shouldn’t be wondrous,

and yet.

and yet.

in the room flooded with yellow light

you were on fire.

we could not have predicted this.

hair falling on a shoulder.

we could not have computed this answer.

when we ran all the systems

we did not think about this.

how your body is a sun in the darkness.

and all the stars were shapes beneath your eyes.

according to all known odds,

we are ruinous.

cosmically hopeless.

and yet. and despite. and regardless.

in the field beneath the sky

you saw everything.