The Asymptote and the Dream of Touch

Without a meeting point, its line extends,
near a curve that never yields
to the embrace distance will not lend.
An abstract theorem the soul comprehends.

It is not hunger for an end, nor the dread of a goal,
but the echo of almost, the intense gaze,
of one who brushes it, without ever a toll,
a missed kiss, a love that remains in a haze.

It exists in the boundary, a promise that will never break
the invisible veil, the ancient fortress
of a destiny calculated for goodness’ sake,
an eternal caress, devoid of certainty’s force.

And in that non-arrival, in that endless graze,
lies its beauty, a silent chorus
of mathematical waiting, an ineffable treasure:
the love that exists without its shelter.