I have come to count on our missives.

Thrice, more daily, they send a ping back and forth…

I know you are there: your spiced blood warming my own.

We ping, measure the depths, equate distance until we land in same space,

uncontrived yet planned.

You are cousin, kindred, friend, all those other unnamable things that live

within a clan. All I can do now is bemoan the distance between us.

The hours long drive that separates the x from the y.

Why we have become variables!

The equation then algebraic: if I you are on a train heading East at 50 m.p.h.

and I am in a car heading West at 90 m,p.h. (love hurries, always),

at which point do we intersect?

I carry Pi to its furthest degree – try to find some meaning.

Like John Nash, I find mathematics everywhere – extracting algorithms of words,

Of your comings and goings: see how it fits into Bargain Theory,

It all remains so very vague, so very elusive. I find the cosine of cousins.

Here are the things that clarify: these black and white messages,

They await their reader, aching to be read.

Elsewhere, in dreams, you blow, rub my hands to warm embers.