If there were 36 things to know
about me, and you only knew 35,
how well could you claim to know
who I am?
If 72 thoughts crossed my mind each day,
and roughly half of them involved you,
how important would that make
you to my heart?
If human language contained
a mere 81 words, yet you and I got by
with no more than 18 of them,
how envious should we be
of those who require more than
the societally-agreed-upon total?
If but 54-septillion stars were believed
to exist in this universe we share,
how much would it then matter that I
still cannot afford to fly you
to any of the nearest 3?
If you had taken more than 6 lovers
to bed, and I had taken not
a single multiple of 9 into mine,
how likely do you think it
would continue to prove,
this bliss between us?
If you had a question for once,
and I was not the unknown answer,
how long do you suppose I would go on
looking for our mismatched solution?
Does every inquiry facilitate
applicable value?
Can it ever just be enough
that I love you much the same
as you love me?
What happens when I let go
of every explanation,
save yours?
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