which, if left to chance?

maybe love is a bit like
what quantum physics
states about entanglement
and the connective thread
which seems to run through us all —
seen (or quite possibly felt?) as some “spooky
action at a distance”
or non-local phenomena
and this truth which troubled einstein so,
leading to his famous dictum
that god doesn’t play dice with the universe,
as if the god which exists far beyond
our imagining must somehow submit
to the simple laws of arithmetic.
or perhaps it’s more like how bukowski quipped —
approached as always
from the somewhat sordid side
of life, about how we carry around
our beloved (and intimately so?)
at the tattered edges of a brain
despite these constantly
grinding gears of time and space
which daily tear away at this still
small center of self,
until nothing left can remain.