The Asymptote Poem by Leo C. Jones

There you are, a stone's
Throw away
Seemingly inches, fleeting bits of space
But miles and miles and more at the very least
And I see them: the others.
I think of them with envy,
Contempt, even.
They are lucky.
Why the unpaved dirt roads of theirs and
Yours of brilliant cobblestone find
themselves at a
Crossing, I don't know.

And here I slope.
But I long that
Fate grant me the privilege
That inevitability, that futility
That ensuring sign
Saying it was written somewhere important
Somewhere that decides what is
Meant to be, unlike
The promise
Of you meeting me
And me meeting you.
Because the slightest graze
Of the skin of our pinkies
Is not written.

The steps I take
Towards the horizon that
Is you is, I know to be in vain.
Every move I make
As I curve down the distance between us
Is the stretch of the universe
And could never divide
To nothing.

I know that someone
Like me,
Can never meet you.

But knowing that
You and I
Are closer each time I inch forward,
Each time I try,
Is enough.