My Future in Algorithms
I'm an awning-bound baby,
all denim and dopamine.
You're sporting a cardigan,
and a knack for trigonometry.
Toaster waffle junkies,
with blue eyes.
I bridge the canyon between our lips on tip-toe:
(It is more than three inches, but less than thirty miles)
My subdermal south-sun shows through sometimes,
and you're arterially Scandinavian.
I count the stars,
and you count down from 9 to 5.
Statistically, baby, we're damned.