Some people. They say we're together. I don't believe it myself, but say we're taking this as a
given:
H(x)/D(x) = x^3 sec(x)
find:
what it would be like.

oh-oh-oh.

I say you've got to skip the preliminaries; get right to it. Bitter attraction hidden behind bitter rivalry, fights in an abandoned storeroom, astronomy tower midnight, fucked-up potions and charms, metaphysical mental meanderings, unlikely declarations of undying love, Romeo and Juliet sitting in a tree, clever plots, war fears, parents and parents and parents -- those are all part of someone else's proof. I wanna get right to the sec(x).

Maybe some licking and sucking
Maybe some of that locker room action
Slam me up against that metal
Ventilator slats mark red stripes across my forehead.
That's a close cousin of carpet burn.

Seventh year 17-year-olds, NC-us.
Let's be original, do it in
midair the library the lake a dormitory:
be quiet, will you?
shit, what do I need to do, gag you?

Silk drenched in saliva dries slowly,
but it'll stifle the broken blasphemous cries,
the moans,
the hisses (can you understand that, Harry?),
and the names names names.
Say it again.

H/D = Harry divided by Draco.
Cleaved in twain, if you will. Pierced up the center.
You were looking for porn? Let's give it a try. Divide him:
Turn over fuck that's right c'mon open up spread for me let me see yeah good okay hold still hold still I said mm god you like that tell me how it feels how you like it yes you can talk dammit just open your mouth and don't censor anything.

The censor does lurk around the corner, marking bits out with his thick black pen: getting so drunk you can't get it up; the mess of lubricant and the question of wizarding STDs; suddenly having to piss; falling asleep too soon; secretly hating the taste of come; the fresh dirty dark nasty sweaty smell and taste of an asshole; one of us wanting to kiss on and on with the intensity of baby stars and the other too fucking impatient.

And sometimes
I come as quickly
as the life is crushed out of an insect under your shoe.
That small, small insignificant death,
and you are so polite.
And sometimes
(you can never change me)
your eyes look smashed:
green shards of bottle glass.
Sometimes they reflect ice.

There is green ice in Antarctica, I think
but then I've never been there.
Green under the surface
on a day that lasts for months.

The geometry of your body astounds me. V of legs and arch of feet. The small round indentations on either side of your nose where your glasses dig in. Your straight nose a right triangle, your knees almost rectangles. The map I draw on your skin with saliva; the precise measurements I've made of the depth of your throat, the length of your fingers, the width of your ribcage. I want to prove the delicate theorems presented by the bare isosceles triangle of hipbone, the inverted hyperbola of parted, kiss-swollen lips, the sine functions of undulating tongue and pelvis and spine.

Green ice in Antarctica and an uncontrollable tangle of dark vines
in some Brazilian jungle
where snakes lurk.

Try another problem.
For practice.
Find the rate
at which you're leaving me.
Solve:
H(x) - D(x) =
= x^3 - 1/sec(x)
= x^3 - 1/1/cos(x)
= x^3 - cos(x)
Differentiate:
d(dx) [H(x) - D(x)] = 3x^2 + sin(x)
which means
nothing at all.


D'(x) = -sin(x). Now isn't that funny.