Why must love be so difficult;
like trying to solve for x when the heart
keeps multiplying its ache by zero?
Every answer bleeds out of reach,
chalk dust clinging to my trembling hands,
the board streaked white with
unfinished equations of almost.
Your eyes were the problem set,
beautifully unsolvable;
your silence, a parenthesis
I could never close.
I tried to divide truth from tenderness,
but every fraction screamed your name.
Even the moon mocked me,
hung there like a lopsided question mark,
its light dissecting my want into fractions
of frost and fever.
And still, I keep writing proofs
with the ink of my pulse,
pretending the sum of us
might someday make sense.
So tell me,
why does love always require
so much work to remain
so beautifully broken?
Nov 1, 2025
Nov 1, 2025 at 1:57 PM UTC
Why must love be so difficult;
like trying to solve for x when the heart
keeps multiplying its ache by zero?
Every answer bleeds out of reach,
chalk dust clinging to my trembling hands,
the board streaked white with
unfinished equations of almost.
Your eyes were the problem set,
beautifully unsolvable;
your silence, a parenthesis
I could never close.
I tried to divide truth from tenderness,
but every fraction screamed your name.
Even the moon mocked me,
hung there like a lopsided question mark,
its light dissecting my want into fractions
of frost and fever.
And still, I keep writing proofs
with the ink of my pulse,
pretending the sum of us
might someday make sense.
So tell me,
why does love always require
so much work to remain
so beautifully broken?
