A Mathematical Love Poem

Last week I was taught that

no matter how complex an expression may seem

if you multiply it by its conjugate pair

you will always end up with a non-negative real solution.

That is a metaphor for how we have learned to love.

I used to like mathematics, as strange as it may sound,

because memorising the value of pi was

somehow easier than forgetting the notion of you

and I thought maybe comprehending the mechanics of the universe

would lead me one step closer to cracking the combination.

In a world that spins at the rate of 27,900m per minute, a constant can prove tricky to find.

Hence, there is solace to be felt in knowing that even when it is all said and done –

when the final bullet has slipped from our tongues and we are left trembling

upon nothing but the rubble of our own destruction,

two plus three will still be equal to five.

In an attempt to clarify a theory to the class, my teacher analogised
that mathematics is like one big giant jigsaw puzzle:

everything always fits together perfectly in the end

Since then I have learned it is the method without the madness,

the passion for the predictable; it is everything - that love is not.

Not even the greatest mathematician in the world

has been able to measure how much a heart can hold.

There is no algorithm for how to make you come back;

I cannot draw a line graph on the speed at which love left

and even if I could, our gradients would never be the same.

I may have both halves of the bed,

but there is never enough space to fill it with.

If a task takes four hours for ten people to complete

and the same job takes five people twice that time,

how long will it take for a human to feel whole again?

Sometimes I think we are nothing more

than two parallel lines that accidentally crossed paths.

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