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Infatuation in the Eyes of a Mathematician

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I’m leaning about a twenty-three degree angle from the wall, but I’ve got a clear one-eighty of vision.
As she emerges I note her speed, the number is a -perfect- square, of course.
We’re two points on this hallway plane, the length of the line between us ever shrinking.
I translate my eyes to your face, and all I can think of is:
(Why)=(can’t)(you)+(be) with me?
You slip past, your symmetry reflects perfection;
And finally, I find the increasing length of your shadow,
As you walk away.





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