Your absence solves the moon's old sun,
a variable lost where the fireflies hum.
I trace the arcs of your cursive breath,
written in steam on the window's death.
The pendulum sways its tired proof,
dividing night from its stolen truth.
While the wallpaper blooms its molded rose,
a theorem only winter know.
Oh,
balance me in your silent X,
where equations sleep and stars perplex.
The light refracts what we can't erase,
parallel lines in a mirrored space sing
sweet unknown through the fractured
night of angels solved but never right.
You left your gloves on the radiator's tongue,
will in parentheses where our warmth once clung.
The stairs still hum your midnight climb,
a square root cut from the hands of time.
December gnaws at the window's edge,
factoring frost on the window ledge.
While the kettle sobs its whistled hymn,
a constant will never ascend.
We were integers in a greater scheme,
prime and odd,
a fevered dream.
Now the graph plots our descent,
a parable of almost spin.
So I'll burn the logs of our old debate,
let the ash define our approximate state.
And when the embers softly show the answer love refused to know,
I'll soak the proof
in the dying flame,
an irrational will never name.