There are 807 Miles Between the Ordinary and Sublime

Too much sweet vanilla creamin a cold brew, or simple syrupin a craft cocktail, implies the bitter of the sublimeis sublimated, numbed by a honeyed something:

give me no saccharine panacea to blunt the ache of days,and no ambrosial mist over the miles. It's immeasurable,and deep, infinitely dividing.

Zeno knows the number:of cells we've held between two handsor shoulders or naked arms;between the hum of a lovefor words and the earthquakeof a nervous shaking leg;

the infinite divinity in seconds and spaces between partsand heartbeats which approach, but never reach, one.