I tried to solve you, line by line,
As if your pulse obeyed design.
But hearts resist the tidy chart—
They scrawl their proofs in bleeding art.

I thought if I could trace the arc,
I’d hold the theorem of your dark.
But love resists the clean incision—
It breathes in error, not precision.

I stopped dissecting. Let the mess remain—
Your contradictions breathing through my pain.
The joy that feels like grief, the tender sting,
That cool blue fire running under skin.

No theorem holds. No scalpel cuts it clean.
Love is the error breathing in between.
It does not close the wound or still the ache—
It only stays when all things break.

So here we are, unsolved and incomplete,
Two errors with a single, ragged beat.
No theorem proves us. No equation mends.
We are the error love refuses to end.