Our capacity is unchanging

But the contents rock and dwindle in

Our pumping hearts as

We blush into romance with

Each other, or new kinds of each other

 

I don’t think that volume can be measured

No one knows what it might be

Oh, we think we are close to overflowing

Yet behind us we can’t use all that empty space.

 

Someone with a tiny paintbrush

In transistor final assembly

Marks the Collector in red

Not the Emitter

Not the Base