No Good At Maths...........................13

I'm no good at Maths:
future set hard as hindsight
where the one right way
is fenced in by equals signs
passed only through gates of ticks.

Art's my thing:
the thick smudged charcoal line -
edge of form or shadow?
My hand's the wind's echo
in a long burned tree
and anyone can judge
the answer behind my eyes
expressed by the line in question.

I dislike statistics, static facts,
ruler's straightjackets of the truth,
prefer my commonsense rare,
the vagueries of weather, mood,
maybe, my senses (six),
wish there were dragons yet
and the unknown not banished
to inside our heads;

and then you came,
made me laugh
and reality was better.

You drew me out;
I asked you "Why?"
was never satisfied with your replies,
forgot the threat
you might withdraw -
even as I sought your hand
I didn't understand,
learned to long
for your touch...

Was I too much
or not enough?

I asked you what I meant to you;
you asked me what I meant.

Afraid this is the summit, sum of it,
I ask when I'll see you again:
you explain
you're "So tired, busy..."
I say "It doesn't matter!" then.
For pity, I guess, or because you're nice, you sigh
"That's not what I said",
but set no date
in all the years of hours I offer free.

I see, now, it meant nothing to you,
but I'm no good at Maths:
your nothing
means something to me.

I'm caught on a barbed wire fence:
you leave without a backward glance,
all the kisses
are crosses
I can't rub from my mouth.