You are my asymptote.

You're there, I'm here.

You're any line, value, point.

Me, any equation, hyperbola.

You don't know it, my reaching out – my want, my need.

I'm reaching out to you, and you're just out of my grasp.

It feels so near, but I know it is far;

it is written in us to never meet.

I would call out to you, so maybe we could meet –

Just once –

And satisfy this craving in me.

But I don't call.

And you don't turn.

I just keep reaching out in vain…

I want you! I need you! I think to myself.

But I stifle these cries.

Why couldn't we be written differently?

Why couldn't we meet in one point, who lines crossing?

Why couldn't we be written the same?

One line, together, the same, always I'd have you.

I dream, I cry, and I'm left here reaching out, out,

You going your own way, never even knowing I'm here.

For you. Just for you.