writes.casa

In the calculus of absence, your distance becomes
an infinite series—each mile a term that never converges.
I measure heartache in negative space,
plot the geometry of what isn't there.
Love follows no equation I can solve:
exponential growth of memory,
logarithmic decay of your voice,
asymptotes that approach but never touch.
My pulse beats in irrational numbers,
a rhythm that defies all proof.
In this algebra of yearning,
X remains beautifully unknown—
the variable I chase through
equations that rewrite themselves
with each breath, each dream,
each unanswered call.