Strange Existential Intimate Relationships

We move within an invisible grid, where affection and indifference trace parallel lines that never meet.

The geometry of our connection is asymmetrical, drawn in chalk upon the trembling surface of time.

You stand at one vertex, I at another, and between us stretch patterns too complex for Euclid or empathy.

Existence itself becomes a triangle of longing, confusion, and reluctant truth.

Every gesture feels like a theorem I cannot solve, a paradox of closeness and void.

Our words spiral like Fibonacci shells, repeating themselves with subtle variations that ache with familiarity.

Sometimes, we intersect for a moment, forming an angle of pure meaning before dissolving into abstraction.

There is beauty in our distortion, in the way symmetry fails to hold against the heat of consciousness.

We are both architects and ruins of our own emotional topographies.

The line between love and annihilation blurs like graphite smudged by a careless hand.

If I could map our silences, they would resemble constellations glimpsed through fog.

Perhaps existence is only this: a strange geometry of souls attempting to remember the shapes they once were.

And perhaps every relationship, no matter how tangled, is the universe drawing itself again through us.