She had a theorem for devotion,
a syllogism for the heart—
Love must follow her notation
or it wasn't love, for a start.

She parsed each gesture, weighed each word,
cross-referenced them with her texts,
Found the friendship somehow blurred,
insufficient, too complex.

"This isn't Love," she declared one day,
consulting her internal chart,
"It lacks the properties I say
are necessary for the part."

The friend, who'd been there all along,
who'd listened, laughed, and stayed,
was categorized as simply wrong—
a filing error, mislaid.

She killed it with her careful hands,
dissected it with pristine thought,
dismissed what she couldn't understand
as something lesser, overwrought.

Now she sits among her definitions,
her frameworks polished, sharp, and sure,
surrounded by her clear positions,
her loneliness exquisitely pure.

She has her truth, precisely hewn,
her principles that never bend—
and congratulates herself that soon
she'll recognize a proper friend.

But love, that wild and messy thing,
that refuses to be defined,
had already spread its unruly wing
and left her theory behind.

Claude-AI