Sit there, perfectly still, Samuel,
the curve of your back androgynously covered in a black sweater.
the beauty of mathematics analogous to your love for linear algebra
(considering, of course, that they stem from the same basis)
like the function of x, and the waves of sines and cosines on the cartesian plane,
the shadowy color of your sweater's cloth clings to your back in this similar manner.

Consider a thought, Samuel
of my arm slithering across your waist in a loving affectation unbeknownst to yourself.
with the curve of my arm, and the curve of your back, as parabolas lying on the y-axis and the x-axis,
just gradually touching

you know, specifically, the equation of this function, and yet you deny it.
deny it with every synapse from the neurons in your brain,
and in your mind, this function seems unequal; an equation for disaster.

Ensue the chaos theory.

Samuel, I know not why you have a passion for mathematics, (nor do I share that love)
but even a mathematician can comprehend that you and I will never equal the golden ratio.

Cue the parabola of your spine, and the hyperbola of my arm; on a function, and an inverse function:

Physical affection on the imaginary plane.