a different long division

everyone is a love story
already happened,
still waiting to happen,
slipping through the fingers,
white-knuckle gripped.
it develops like a Polaroid
in the middle of the night
staring into empty streets
more lonely, less lonely
at the same time—
there is never enough
punctuation to put an end
to sentences about nothing,
about everything,
so we strip to our bones,
let our rib cages
do the talking.