The Shape of Things (Poetry)

The anatomy of numbers rules,
more or less,
your moving out has given us
extra space,
at least in theory,
but the room is close to sacred,
occupied in absentia.

Love doesn't work in feet and inches
or units of ten
but has its own scale
written somewhere deep.
The size and shape of loss
likewise has no formula
to calculate its sum -
all guesswork
on the sliderule of emotion.

My once neatly drawn geometry
is flawed, the angles suddenly untrue
and I daren't add their total,
fearing that I'll find
the impossible redesigned
and hope getting smaller
and smaller
and smaller.