With an abacus, I could track the times you and I have weighed in, hand to hand, skull to skull, mouth to mouth, beaded with sweat. If I had the brass, I'd quit you and your pheromone juju that undoes my knees every time I see you. Given the grit, I'd gash you when you take a stab at me. But I have ifs and you have me, netted, complicit, wooden and pushed about like some counter, adding up to us.