The girl I lost to cocaine
knew of hyperbolic space
saw the world in graphite,
and had calculator eyes.
She wore her quadrennial pendant
on a red, white, and blue ribbon
around her neck, between her bust,
just so I would see it when we spoke.
There was something better about her.
She was the proverbial Killing vector,
curving space as she went along
she was the ecumenical whore
who knew how to compute cohomology groups
and inserted them into her cervix.
I tried desperately to get answers out of her
but they were buried under layers of abstraction,
splitting cells in her uterus,
and so I took to reading books instead.
She taught me QED, QCD, and QFT
but when it came to the big and quick
she only knew how to kill a buzz.
So the girl I lost to cocaine
became as far removed from reality
as that conjecture by Hodge
on algebraic varieties;
shapes that have no shape
not unlike she and I in bed.
She rippled like time
and shook like foam.
She took hits of smack
off the spine of my textbooks
then ate the contents of the pages,
and when she sank to that singularity
in her mind
she dreamt up such magnificent things,
such beautiful poetry,
mathematics of the purest variety,
mathematics so symmetric
that it couldn’t have been complete.
And so that girl I lost to cocaine
was the brightest thing in the night sky.
We wrote papers together
and ate poems about pi,
we flew in airplanes every second thursday
and computed de Rham complexes
in an imaginary anti-de Sitter space
while licking the lead off our fingertips.
She snorted everything,
and differential forms.
She is no longer complete.
That girl I lost to cocaine
is now buried
under piles of abstraction herself
and I’m learning
as quick as I’m able
so I can dig her out
and crucify her
on a binary operator.