Proof of Feeling

(a theorem on why you still haunt me)

Let x be the distance between us.
Let t be time, uncooperative.
Let f(t) be the frequency of dreams
where I still wake up apologizing.

We begin with the assumption:
You loved me once.
But this leads to contradiction
when tested against observable decay.

Let hope be a limit
as t approaches forever.
Then prove why I still check my phone
as if missed calls are Schrödinger’s ghosts—
both ringing and not.

Let grief(t) = d(love)/dt—
the derivative of a feeling
whose source abandoned the equation.
It spikes.
Then spirals.
Then loops like recursion
with no exit clause.

I tried to solve us
like a second-order differential:
two hearts oscillating,
no damping factor,
no external force to explain
why you phased out of solution.

But the math began to glitch—
you were irrational.
A root I could never simplify.
Every time I divided the silence,
it multiplied.

I plotted your absence on a graph
and it bent—
not a straight line,
but a Möbius strip
where every return was just a deeper turn inward.

The midpoint broke me.
No metaphor. No equation.
Just me in the mirror
trying to subtract the part of my face
that still waits for yours.

By now, even constants betray me.
Even zero feels like too much.

Let the proof collapse.
Let the theorem rot.
Because love is not a function
if its domain excludes reality.

Still—

I carry your name
like an unsolved integral.
Its symbol loops
but never closes.

Q.E.D.
(Quite Emotionally Devastated.)