Her room is a box, obscured from view,
and the fallout from emotive radiation
dies in half life. Sexual reality is non-local
unless you open up your eyes, so you sit
there in the black, cloaked in macroscopic
indeterminacy and sense the superposition
of her body curled away beneath the sheets.
Both of you exist on infinite worlds, just as long
as you remain that way —you both never see
her again as well as stay with her forever while
simultaneously continuing to rendezvous like
this for several months of vague, non-committal
emotional confusion, misconstrued between
your friends. Perhaps you’ve gone home with
another girl than the one who left the party —
hell, perhaps another guy — while at once
you went home alone, and never left the house
at all. Or maybe she’s The One (although
as long as we’re discussing physical science
and probability, that one seems particularly
unlikely however still completely possibly). But
the witness draws an outcome, and as soon
as one observes this quantum entanglement
of two distinct bodies on wavering strings,
the action exerts a force between them, a force
so powerful it destroys every world but One.
Because sometimes, when you’re trapped in the
vastness of space, it’s better to stay in the dark.
bpmcgackin
nantonio
The Writer
jeremybgg
lisamccolgan
Meredith Turits
ptmcniff
thomdunn
