I trusted the data, coincidence lied.
But somehow you altered the rules I applied.
Every touch had a purpose, a limit, a need.
But my pulse kept recording what I wouldn't read.
I remember your first presentation I hear.
The tremor in your voice, every trace of your fear.
I thought time had a way of erasing the past.
Yet somehow your memory held fast.
We were so afraid of a false positive.
We read every true thing as negative.
The error that mattered, the one we failed to detect, was calling this closeness a random effect.
We tested the hypothesis time after time.
Reduced every glance to a meaningless sign.
And if it still holds after all we put it through, tell me, what else could we possibly need to prove?
You crossed yourself out of the future we'd drawn.
