[I'm becoming really pessimistic about my chances with this guy I like. So many mixed messages! He might as well be speaking Navajo.]

you are under scientific analysis.
for several months i have carefully observed
your every word, look, and action,
and from my research i have concluded
that you are not in love with me.
your sly grins and twinkling eyes
have been noted, yes, but your still hands
have diminished the importance
of such qualitative data.
i am considering the option
of donning my white lab coat,
and pouring powders and solutions,
grams and milliliters,
into vials which could hold
love.
but i know deep inside
this petri dish heart
that it is a hopeless cause.
the science of me
is not the science of you,
is not the science of two hands holding;
love is not an equation,
it is not a graph—
it is a constant
and beautiful experiment.

you were my favorite hypothesis.